ft?  3amcs  iPIjtttomb  Etlep 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS 

SKETCHES  IN  PROSE,  With  Interluding  Verses 

AFTERWHILES 

PIPES  O'  PAN  (Prose  and  Verse) 

RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING  BROOKS 

ARMAZINDY 

A  CHILD-WORLD 

HOME-FOLKS 

HIS  PA'S  ROMANCE 

MORNING     (The  volumes  above  are  bound  in  a  uniform 
set  known  as  the  Greenfield  Edition) 

OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES 

THE  GOLDEN  YEAR 

POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME 

RUBAIYAT  OF  DOC  SIFERS 

THE  BOOK  OF  JOYOUS  CHILDREN 

RILEY  CHILD-RHYMES  (  With  Hoosier  Pictures) 

RILEY  LOVE-LYRICS  (Pictures  by  Dyer) 

RILEY  FARM.RH  YMES  (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

RILEY  SONGS  O'  CHEER  (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 
(Pictures  by  Christy) 

OUT  TO  OLD  AUNT  MARY'S 
(Pictures  by  Christy) 

HOME  AGAIN  WITH  ME  (Pictures  by  Christy) 
A  DEFECTIVE  SANTA  CLAUS 
(Pictures  by  Vawter  and  Relyea) 

WHILE  THE  HEART  BEATS  YOUNG 
(Pictures  by  Betts) 

THE  RAGGEDY  MAN  (Pictures  by  Betts) 


MORNING 


I  AMES    WHITCOMJi   KJJ.F.V 

From  the   Pbrtrait  by  John   S.  Sar$fen*8    R 
In  the  John  Herron  Art  Institute,  Indianapolis 


THE  BOBBv 

PUtLH 


MORNING 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Univ.  library,  UC  Santa  Cruz  1989 

COPYRIGHT  1907 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


OCTOBEX 


T-S 
3/7  Of 


MORNING 


TO 

MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

America  69 

An  Autumnal  Tonic  78 

An  Empty  Nest  40 

Children  of  the  Childless,  The  85 

Christine  93 

Christmas  Glee,  A  98 

Country  Editor,  The  39 

Doctor,  The  30 

Even  as  a  Child  22 

General  Lew  Wallace  89 

Golden  Wedding,  A  16 

Good  Man,  A  61 

Great  God  Pan,  The  9 

Henry  Irving  44 

His  Heart  of  Constant  Youth  27 

His  Last  Picture  42 

Hoosier  Calendar,  A  72 

Hoosier  in  Exile,  The  91 

Humble  Singer,  A  79 

Laughing  Song  I4 

Life  at  the  Lake  IO3 

Lincoln— The  Boy  87 

Little  Woman,  The  go 
Longfellow 


CONTENTS'-  Continued 

PAGE 

Loveliness,  The  4 

Morning  I 

My  Foe  34 

Nicholas  Oberting  62 

Old  Days,  The  20 

On  Reading  Dr.  van  Dyke's  Poems—Music  n 

Our  Little  Girl  59 

Ours  67 

"Out  of  Reach"?  33 

Parting  Guest,  A  19 

Quest  of  the  Fathers,  The  6 

Rainy  Morning,  The  35 

Rest,  The  96 

Rose-Lady,  The  66 

Sis  Rapalye  2 

Soldier,  The  23 

Some  Imitations  47 

Spring  Song  and  a  Later,  A  84 

To  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  37 

Voice  of  Peace,  The  45 

We  Must  Believe  100 

We  Must  Get  Home  105 

What  Title?  88 

You  May  Not  Remember  94 


CONTENTS  —  Continued 

DIALECT,  CHILDISH  AND  LIGHTER  LINES 

PAGE 

"Blue-Monday"  at  the  Shoe  Shop  153 

Bub  Says  148 

Goldie  Goodwin  145 

Grampa's  Choice  124 

Her  Poet-Brother  120 

Hired  Man's  Dog- Story,  The  in 

Hoosier  Spring-Poetry  160 

I'  Got  to  Face  Mother  To-Day !  122 

It's  Got  to  Be  157 

Little  Lame  Boy's  Views,  A  125 

Lizabuth-Ann  on  Bakin'-Day  138 

"Mother"  139 

Name  Us  no  Names  no  More  134 

Perversity  119 

Poor  Student,  The  150 

Rabbit  128 

Raggedy  Man  on  Children,  The  137 

Symptoms  146 

Thinkin'  Back  131 

Thoughts  of  Youth,  The  156 

Uncle  Sidney's  Rhymes  152^ 

Very  Tall  Boy,  A  130 

What  Little  Saul  Got,  Christmas  143 


MORNING 


MORNING 

BREATH  of  Morning — breath  of  May—- 
With your  zest  of  yesterday 
And  crisp,  balmy  freshness,  smite 
Our  old  hearts  with  Youth's  delight. 

Tilt  the  cap  of  Boyhood — yea, 
Where  no  "forelock"  waves,  to-day, — 
Back,  in  breezy,  cool  excess, 
Stroke  it  with  the  old  caress. 

Let  us  see  as  we  have  seen — 
Where  all  paths  are  dewy-green, 
And  all  human-kind  are  kin — 
Let  us  be  as  we  have  been ! 


SIS   RAPALYE 

WHEN  rainy-greener  shoots  the  grass 

And  blooms  the  cherry-tree, 
And  children  laugh  by 'glittering  brooks, 

Wild  with  the  ecstasy 
Of  bursting  Spring,  with  twittering  bird 

And  hum  of  honey-bee, — 
"Sis  Rapalye!"  my  spirit  shouts    .    .    . 

And  she  is  here  with  me ! 

As  laugh  the  children,  so  her  laugh 

Haunts  all  the  atmosphere ; — 
Her  song  is  in  the  brook's  refrain ; 

Her  glad  eyes,  flashing  clear, 
Are  in  the  morning  dews ;  her  speech 

Is  melody  so  dear, 
The  bluebird  trills,— "Sis  Rapalye  !— 

I  hear !— I  hear !— I  hear !" 

Again  in  races,  at  "Recess," 

I  see  her  braided  hair 
Toss  past  me  as  I  stay  to  lift 

Her  straw  hat,  fallen  there ; 
2 


SIS  RAPALYE 

The  school-bell  sends  a  vibrant  pang 

My  heart  can  hardly  bear. — 
Yet  still  she  leads— Sis  Rapalye — 

And  leads  me  everywhere ! 

Now  I  am  old. — Yet  she  remains 

The  selfsame  child  of  ten. — 
Gay,  gallant  little  girl,  to  race 

On  into  Heaven  then ! 
Yet  gallant,  gay  Sis  Rapalye — 

In  blossom-time,  and  when 
The  trees  and  grasses  beckon  her — 

Comes  back  to  us  again. 

And  so,  however  long  since  youth 

Whose  raptures  wild  and  free 
An  old  man's  heart  may  claim  no  more, — 

With  more  than  memory 
I  share  the  Spring's  own  joy  that  brings 

My  boyhood  back  to  me 
With  laughter,  blossoms,  singing  birds 

And  sweet  Sis  Rapalye. 


THE   LOVELINESS 

AH,  what  a  long  and  loitering  way 

And  ever-lovely  way,  in  truth, 
We  travel  on  from  day  to  day 

Out  of  the  realms  of  youth ! 

How  eagerly  we  onward  press 
The  lovely  path  that  lures  us  still 

With  ever-changing  loveliness 
Of  grassy  vale  and  hill : 

Of  groves  of  May  and  morning-lands 

Dew-diamonded  and  gemmed  with  bloom ; 

With  amber  streams  and  golden  sands 
And  aisles  of  gleam  and  gloom; 

Where  lovely  little  Fairy-folk, 
In  careless  ambush,  pipe  and  call 

From  tousled  ferns  neath  elm  and  oak 
By  shoal  and  waterfall : 
4 


THE  LOVELINESS 

Transparent  even  as  the  stream, 
The  gnarled  prison-tree  reveals 

Its  lovely  Dryad  in  a  dream 
That  scarce  itself  conceals ; 

The  sudden  redbird  trips  the  sight 
And  tricks  the  ear — or  doubtless  we 

With  happy  palms  had  clapped  the  Sprite 
In  new  captivity. 

On — on,  through  all  the  gathering  years, 
Still  gleams  the  loveliness,  though  seen 

Through  dusks  of  loss  and  mists  of  tears 
That  vainly  intervene. 

Time  stints  us  not  of  lovely  things — 
Old  Age  hath  still  a  treasure-store, — 

The  loveliness  of  songs  and  wings 
And  voices  on  before. — 

And — loveliness  beyond  all  grace 
Of  lovely  words  to  say  or  sing, — 

The  loveliness  of  Hope's  fair  face 
Forever  brightening. 


THE   QUEST  OF  THE  FATHERS 

WHAT  were  our  Forefathers  trying  to  find 

When  they  weighed  anchor,  that  desperate  hour 
They  turned  from  home,  and  the  warning  wind 

Sighed  in  the  sails  of  the  old  Mayflower  ? 
What  sought  they  that  could  compensate 

Their  hearts  for  the  loved  ones  left  behind — 
The  household  group  at  the  glowing  grate  ? — 

What  were  our  Forefathers  trying  to  find  ? 

What  were  they  trying  to  find  more  dear 

Than  their  native  land  and  its  annals  old, — 
Its  throne — its  church — and  its  worldly  cheer — 

Its  princely  state,  and  its  hoarded  gold  ? 
What  more  dear  than  the  mounds  of  green 

There  o'er  the  brave  sires,  slumbering  long  ? 
What  more  fair  than  the  rural  scene — 

What  more  sweet  than  the  throstle's  song? 

Faces  pallid,  but  sternly  set, 

Lips  locked  close,  as  in  voiceless  prayer, 
And  eyes  with  never  a  teardrop  wet — 

Even  the  tenderest  woman's  there ! 
6 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  FATHERS 

But  O  the  light  from  the  soul  within, 

As  each  spake  each  with  a  flashing  mind — 

As  the  lightning  speaks  to  its  kith  and  kin ! 
What  were  our  Forefathers  trying  to  find  ? 

Argonauts  of  a  godless  day — 

Seers  of  visions,  and  dreamers  vain ! 
Their  ship's  foot  set  in  a  pathless  way, — 

The  fogs,  the  mists,  and  the  blinding  rain ! — 
When  the  gleam  of  sun,  and  moon  and  star 

Seemed  lost  so  long  they  were  half  forgot — 
When  the  fixed  eyes  found  nor  near  nor  far, 

And  the  night  whelmed  all,  and  the  world  was 
not. 

And  yet,  befriended  in  some  strange  wise, 

They  groped  their  way  in  the  storm  and  stress 
Through  which — though  their  look  found  not  the 
skies — 

The  Lord's  look  found  them  nevertheless — 
Found  them,  yea,  in  their  piteous  lot, 

As  they  in  their  faith  from  the  first  divined — 
Found  them,  and  favored  them — too.  But  what — 

What  were  our  Forefathers  trying  to  find  ? 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  FATHERS 

Numb  and  agasp,  with  the  frost  for  breath', 

They  came  on  a  frozen  shore,  at  last, 
As  bleak  and  drear  as  the  coasts  of  death, — 

And  yet  their  psalm  o'er  the  wintry  blast 
Rang  glad  as  though  'twere  the  chiming  mirth 

Of  jubilant  children  landing  there — 
Until  o'er  all  of  the  icy  earth 

The  snows  seemed  warm,  as  they  knelt  in 
prayer. 

For,  lo !  they  were  close  on  the  trail  they 
sought : — 

In  the  sacred  soil  of  the  rights  of  men 
They  marked  where  the  Master-hand  had 
wrought ; 

And  there  they  garnered  and  sowed  again. — 
Their  land — then  ours,  as  to-day  it  is, 

With  its  flag  of  heaven's  own  light  designed, 
And  God's  vast  love  o'er  all.    .    .   .   And  this 

Is  what  our  Forefathers  were  trying  to  find. 


8 


THE   GREAT   GOD   PAN 

"What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan?" 

— Mrs.  Browning. 

O  PAN  is  the  goodliest  god,  I  wist, 

Of  all  of  the  lovable  gods  that  be ! — 
For  his  two  strong  hands  were  the  first  to  twist 
From  the  depths  of  the  current,  through  spatter 

and  mist, 

The  long-hushed  reeds  that  he  pressed  in  glee 
To  his  murmurous  mouth2  as  he  chuckled  and 

kissed 
Their  souls  into  melody. 

And  the  wanton  winds  are  in  love  with  Pan : 
They  loll  in  the  shade  with  him  day  by  day ; 

And  betimes  as  beast,  and  betimes  as  man, 

They  love  him  as  only  the  wild  winds  can, — 
Or  sleeking  the  coat  of  his  limbs  one  way, 

Or  brushing  his  brow  with  the  locks  they  fan 
To  the  airs  he  loves  to  play. 
9 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN 

And  he  leans  by  the  river,  in  gloom  and  gleam, 
Blowing  his  reeds  as  the  breezes  blow — 

His  cheeks  puffed  out,  and  his  eyes  in  a  dream, 

And  his  hoof-tips,  over  the  leaves  in  the  stream, 
Tapping  the  time  of  the  tunes  that  flow 

As  sweet  as  the  drowning  echoes  seem 
To  his  rollicking  wraith  bejow. 


10 


ON  READING  DR.  HENRY  VAN  DYKE'S 
VOLUME  OF  POEMS— MUSIC 

Music ! — Yea,  and  the  airs  you  play — 

Out  of  the  faintest  Far- A  way 

And  the  sweetest,  too ;  and  the  dearest  Here, 

With  its  quavering  voice  but  its  bravest  cheer — 

The  prayer  that  aches  to  be  all  expressed — 

The  kiss  of  love  at  its  tenderest : 

Music — music,  with  glad  heart-throbs 

Within  it ;  and  music  with  tears  and  sobs 

Shaking  it,  as  the  startled  soul 

Is  shaken  at  shriek  of  the  fife  and  roll 

Of  the  drums ; — then  as  suddenly  lulled  again 

With  the  whisper  and  lisp  of  the  summer  rain : 

Mist  of  melodies  fragrance-fine — 

The  birdsong  flicked  from  the  eglantine 

With  the  dews  when  the  springing  bramble 

throws 

A  rarer  drench  on  its  ripest  rose, 
And  the  winged  song  soars  up  and  sinks 
To  the  dove's  dim  coo  by  the  river-brinks 
II 


ON   READING  DR.   VAN   DYKE'S   POEMS 

Where  the  ripple's  voice  still  laughs  along 
Its  glittering  path  of  light  and  song. 
Music,  O  Poet,  and  all  your  own 
By  right  of  capture  and  that  alone, — 
For  in  it  we  hear  the  harmony 
Born  of  the  earth  and  the  air  and  the  sea, 
Anci  over  and  under  it,  and  all  through, 
We  catch  the  chime  of  The  Anthem,  too. 


12 


LONGFELLOW 
1807— FEBRUARY  27—1907 

O  GENTLEST  kinsman  of  Humanity ! 
Thy  love  hath  touched  all  hearts,  even  as  thy  Song 
Hath  touched  all  chords  of  music  that  belong 
To  the  quavering  heaven-strung  harp  of  har- 
mony: 

Thou  hast  made  man  to  feel  and  hear  and  see 
Divinely ; — made  the  weak  to  be  the  strong ; 
By  thy  melodious  magic,  changed  the  wrong 
To  changeless  right — and  joyed  and  wept  as  we. 
Worlds  listen,  lulled  and  solaced  at  the  spell 
That  folds  and  holds  us — soul  and  body,  too, — 
As  though  thy  songs,  as  loving  arms  in  stress 
Of  sympathy  and  trust  ineffable, 
Were  thrown  about  us  thus  by  one  who  knew 
Our  common  human  need  of  kindliness. 


LAUGHING   SONG 

SING  us  something  full  of  laughter ; 

Tune  your  harp,  and  twang  the  strings 
Till  your  glad  voice,  chirping  after, 

Mates  the  song  the  robin  sings : 
Loose  your  lips  and  let  them  flutter 

Like  the  wings  of  wanton  birds, — 
Though  they  naught  but  laughter  utter, 

Laugh,  and  we'll  not  miss  the  words. 

Sing  in  ringing  tones  that  mingle 

In  a  melody  that  flings 
Joyous  echoes  in  a  jingle 

Sweeter  than  the  minstrel  sings : 
Sing  of  Winter,  Spring  or  Summer, 

Clang  of  war,  or  low  of  herds ; 
Trill  of  cricket,  roll  of  drummer — 

Laugh,  and  we'll  not  miss  the  words. 


LAUGHING  SONG 

0 

Like  the  lisping  laugnter  glancing 

From  the  meadow  brooks  and  springs, 
Or  the  river's  ripples  dancing 

To  the  tune  the  current  sings — 
Sing  of  Now,  and  the  Hereafter ; 

Let  your  glad  song,  like  the  birds', 
Overflow  with  limpid  laughter — 

Laugh,  and  we'll  not  miss  the  words. 


A   GOLDEN   WEDDING 
[DECEMBER — 1884] 

YOUR  Golden  Wedding ! — fif ty  years 
Of  comradeship,  through  smiles  and  tears  !- 
Through  summer  sun,  and  winter  sleet, 
You  walked  the  ways  with  willing  feet ; 
For>  journeying  together  thus, 
Each  path  held  something  glorious. 
No  winter  wind  could  blow  so  chill 
But  found  you  even  warmer  still 
In  fervor  of  affection — blest 
In  knowing  all  was  for  the  best ; 
And  so,  content,  you  faced  the  storm 
And  fared  on,  smiling,  arm-in-arm. 

But  why  this  moralizing  strain 
Beside  a  hearth  that  glows  again 
As  on  your  Wooden  wedding  day  ? — 
When  butter-prints  and  paddles  lay 
16 


A  GOLDEN   WEDDING 

Around  in  dough-bowls,  tubs  and  churns, 
And  all  such  "woodenish"  concerns ; 
And  "woodenish"  they  are — for  now 
Who  can  afford  to  keep  a  cow 
And  pestle  some  old  churn,  when  you 
Can  buy  good  butter — "golden",  too — 
Far  cheaper  than  you  can  afford 
To  make  it  and  neglect  the  Lord ! 

And  round  your  hearth  the  faces  gleam 
That  may  recall,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  brightness  of  a  time  when  Tin 
Came  glittering  and  clanging  in 
And  raising  noise  enough  to  seize 
And  settle  any  swarm  of  bees ! 
But  those  were  darling  times,  no  doubt, — 
To  see  the  mother  pouring  out 
The  "tins"  of  milk,  and  tilting  up 
The  coffee-pot  above  each  cup ; 
Or,  with  the  ladle  from  the  wall, 
Dipping  and  serving  mush  for  all. 

And  all  the  "weddings",  as  they  came, — 
The  "Glass",  the  "CTiwa",— -still  the  same 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

You  see  them,  till  the  last  ere  this, — 
The  "Silver", — and  your  wedded  bliss 
Abated  not ! — for  love  appears 
Just  silvered  over  with  the  years  :— 
Silver  the  grandchild's  laugh  you  hear — 
Silver  his  hopes,  and  silver-clear 
Your  every  prayer  for  him, — and  still 
Silver  your  hope,  through  good  and  ill — 
Silver  and  silver  everywhere, 
Bright  as  the  silver  of  your  hair ! 

But  on  your  Golden  Wedding ! — Nay— ^ 

What  can  I  give  to  you  to-day 

Who  am  too  very  poor  indeed 

To  offer  what  I  so  much  need  ? 

If  gold  I  gave,  I  fear,  alack ! 

I'd  needs  provide  you  gave  it  back, 

To  stay  me,  the  long  years  before 

I'd  stacked  and  heaped  five  dollars  more ! 

And  so,  in  lieu — and  little  worse — 

I  proffer  you  this  dross  of  verse — 

The  merest  tinsel,  I  admit, — 

But  take  it — I  have  more  of  it. 


18 


A  PARTING  GUEST 

WHAT  delightful  hosts  are  they — 

Life  and  Love ! 
Lingeringly  I  turn  away, 

This  late  hour,  yet  glad  enough 
They  have  not  withheld  from  me 

Their  high  hospitality. 
So,  with  face  lit  with  delight 
And  all  gratitude,  I  stay 
Yet  to  press  their  hands  and  say, 
"Thanks.— So  fine  a  time!  Good  night." 


THE  OLD   DAYS 

THE  old  days — the  far  days — 

The  ever  dear  and  fair ! — 
The  old  days — the  lost  days — 

How  lovely  they  were ! 
The  old  days  of  Morning, 

With  the  dew-drench  on  the  flowers 
And  apple-buds  and  blossoms 

Of  those  old  days  of  ours. 

Then  was  the  real  gold 

Spendthrift  Summer  flung; 
Then  was  the  real  song 

Bird  or  Poet  sung ! 
There  was  never  censure  then, — 

Only  honest  praise — 
And  all  things  were  worthy  of  it 

In  the  old  days. 


20 


THE  OLD  DAYS 

There  bide  the  true  friends — 

The  first  and  the  best ; 
There  clings  the  green  grass 

Close  where  they  rest : 
Would  they  were  here  ?  No ; — 

Would  we  were  there !    .   .   . 
The  old  days — the  lost  days — 

How  lovely  they  were ! 


21 


EVEN   AS   A   CHILD 
CANTON,  SEPTEMBER  19,  1901 

as  a  child  to  whom  sad  neighbors  speak 
In  symbol,  saying  that  his  father  "sleeps" — 
Who  feels  their  meaning,  even  as  his  cheek 

Feels  the  first  teardrop  as  it  stings  and  leaps — 
Who  keenly  knows  his  loss,  and  yet  denies 
Its  awful  import — grieves  unreconciled, 
Moans,  drowses — rouses,  with  new-drowning 
eyes — • 

Even  as  a  child. 

Even  as  a  child ;  witH  empty,  aimless  hand 

i     Clasped  sudden  to  the  heart  all  hope  deserts — 

With  tears  that  blur  all  lights  on  sea  or  land — 

The  lip  that  quivers  and  the  throat  that  hurts : 
Even  so,  the  Nation  that  has  known  his  love 
Is  orphaned  now ;  and,  whelmed  in  anguish 

wild, 

Knows  but  its  sorrow  and  the  ache  thereof, 
Even  as  a  child. 
22 


THE   SOLDIER     . 

THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  SOLDIERS  AND  SAILORS 
MONUMENT,  INDIANAPOLIS,  MAY  15,  1902 

THE  SOLDIER  ! — meek  the  title,  yet  divine : 

Therefore,  with  reverence,  as  with  wild  acclaim, 
We  fain  would  honor  in  exalted  line 

The  glorious  lineage  of  the  glorious  name : 
The  Soldier. — Lo,  he  ever  was,  and  is, 

Our  Country's  high  custodian,  by  right 
Of  patriot  blood  that  brims  that  heart  of  his 

With  fiercest  love,  yet  honor  infinite. 

The  Soldier — within  whose  inviolate  care 

The  Nation  takes  repose, — her  inmost  fane 
Of  Freedom  ever  has  its  guardian  there, 

As  have  her  forts  and  fleets  on  land  and  main : 
The  Heavenward  Banner,  as  its  ripples  stream 

In  happy  winds,  or  float  in  languid  flow, 
Through  silken  meshes  ever  sifts  the  gleam 

Of  sunshine  on  its  Sentinel  below, 
23 


THE  SOLDIER 

The  Soldier ! — Why,  the  very  utterance 

Is  music — as  of  rallying  bugles,  blent 
With  blur  of  drums  and  cymbals  and  the  chants 

Of  battle-hymns  that  shake  the  continent ! — 
The  thunder-chorus  of  a  world  is  stirred 

To  awful,  universal  jubilee, — 
Yet  ever  through  it,  pure  and  sweet,  are  heard 

The  prayers  of  Womanhood,  and  Infancy. 

Even  as  a  fateful  tempest  sudden  loosed 

Upon  our  senses,  so  our  thoughts  are  blown 
Back  where  The  Soldier  battled,  nor  refused 

A  grave  all  nameless  in  a  clime  unknown. — 
The  Soldier — though,  perchance,  worn,  old  and 
gray; 

The  Soldier — though,  perchance,  the  merest 

lad,— 
The  Soldier — though  he  gave  his  life  away, 

Hearing  the  shout  of  "Victory,"  was  glad ; 

Aye,  glad  and  grateful,  that  in  such  a  cause 
His  veins  were  drained  at  Freedom's  holy 

shrine — 

Rechristening  the  land — as  first  it  was, — 
His  blood  poured  thus  in  sacramental  sign 
24 


THE  SOLDIER 

Of  new  baptism  of  the  hallowed  name 
"My  Country" — now  on  every  lip  once  more 

And  blest  of  God  with  still  enduring  fame. — 
This  thought  even  then  The  Soldier  gloried 
o'er — 

The  dying  eyes  upraised  in  rapture  there, — 

As,  haply,  he  remembered  how  a  breeze 
Once  swept  his  boyish  brow  and  tossed  his  hair, 

Under  the  fresh  bloom  of  the  orchard-trees — 
When  his  heart  hurried,  in  some  wistful  haste 

Of  ecstasy,  and  his  quick  breath  was  wild 
And  balmy-sharp  and  chilly-sweet  to  taste, — 

And  he  towered  godlike,  though  a  trembling 
child! 

Again,  through  luminous  mists,  he  saw  the  skies' 

Far  fields  white-tented ;  and  in  gray  and  blue 
And  dazzling  gold,  he  saw  vast  armies  rise 

And  fuse  in  fire — from  which,  in  swiftest  view, 
The  Old  Flag  soared,  and  friend  and  foe  as  one 

Blent  in  an  instant's  vivid  mirage    .    .    .    Then 
The  eyes  closed  smiling  on  the  smiling  sun 

That  changed  the  seer  to  a  child  again. — 


THE  SOLDIER 

And,  even  so,  The  Soldier  slept. — Our  own ! — 

The  Soldier  of  our  plaudits,  flowers  and 

tears, — 
O  this  memorial  of  bronze  and  stone — • 

His  love  shall  outlast  this  a  thousand  years ! 
Yet,  as  the  towering  symbol  bids  us  do, — 

With  soul  saluting,  as  salutes  the  hand, 
We  answer  as  The  Soldier  answered  to 

The  Captain's  high  command. 


26 


HIS  HEART  OF  CONSTANT  YOUTH 

"And  I  never  hear  the  drums  beat 
that  I  do  not  think  of  him." 

— Major  Charles  L.  Holstein. 

TURN  through  his  life,  each  word  and  deed 

Now  sacred  as  it  is — 
How  helped  and  soothed  we  are  to  read 

A  history  like  his ! 

To  turn  the  years,  in  far  review, 

And  find  him — as  To-day — 
In  orchard-lands  of  bloom  and  dew 

Again  a  boy  at  play : 

The  jeweled  grass — the  sumptuous  trees 
And  flower  and  fragrance  there, 

With  song  of  birds  and  drone  of  bees 
And  Springtime  everywhere: 
27 


HIS   HEART   OF   CONSTANT  YOUTH 

Turn  any  chapter  that  we  will, 

Read  any  page,  in  sooth, 
We  find  his  glad  heart  owning  still 

The  freshness  of  his  youth. 

With  such  a  heart  of  tender  care 
He  loved  his  own,  and  thus 

His  home  was,  to  the  loved  ones  there, 
A  temple  glorious. 

And,  ever  youthful,  still  his  love 

Enshrined,  all  manifold, 
The  people — all  the  poor  thereof, 

The  helpless  and  the  old. 

And  little  children — Ah !  to  them 

His  love  was  as  the  sun 
Wrought  in  a  magic  diadem 

That  crowned  them,  everyone. 

And  ever  young  his  reverence  for 
The  laws :  like  morning-dew 

He  shone  as  counsel,  orator, 
And  clear  logician,  too. 


28 


HIS  HEART  OF  CONSTANT  YOUTH 

And,  as  a  boy,  his  gallant  soul 

Made  answer  to  the  trill 
Of  battle-trumpet  and  the  roll 

Of  drums  that  echo  still : 

His  comrades — as  his  country,  dear — 

They  knew,  and  ever  knew 
That  buoyant,  boyish  love,  sincere 

As  truth  itself  is  true : 

He  marched  with  them,  in  tireless  tramp — 
Laughed,  cheered  and  lifted  up 

The  battle-chorus,  and  in  camp 
Shared  blanket,  pipe  and  cup. 

His  comrades !  .  .  .  When  you  meet  again, 

In  anguish  though  you  bow, 
Remember  how  he  loved  you  then, 

And  how  he  loves  you  now. 


29 


THE  DOCTOR 
[APRIL  29,  1907] 

"He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear; 
And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said:  (Thou  ailest  here,  and  here!' " 

— Mattfiew  Arnold. 

WE  may  idealize  the  chief  of  men — • 

Idealize  the  humblest  citizen, — 

Idealize  the  ruler  in  his  chair — 

The  poor  man,  or  the  poorer  millionaire ; 

Idealize  the  soldier — sailor — or 

The  simple  man  of  peace — at  war  with  war ; — 

The  hero  of  the  sword  or  fife-and-drum.    .    . 

Why  not  idealize  the  Doctor  some  ? 

The  Doctor  is,  by  principle,  we  know, 
Opposed  to  sentiment :  he  veils  all  show 
Of  feeling,  and  is  proudest  when  he  hides 
The  sympathy  which  natively  abides 
30 


THE  DOCTOR 

Within  the  stoic  precincts  of  a  soul 
Which  owns  strict  duty  as  its  first  control, 
And  so  must  guard  the  ill,  lest  worse  may 

come.    .    .    . 
Why  not  idealize  the  Doctor  some  ? 

He  is  the  master  of  emotions — he 

Is  likewise  certain  of  that  mastery, — 

Or  dare  he  face  contagion  in  its  ire, 

Or  scathing  fever  in  its  leaping  fire  ? 

He  needs  must  smile  upon  the  ghastly  face 

That  yearns  up  toward  him  in  that  warded  place 

Where   even   the   Saint-like    Sisters'   lips   grow 

dumb. 
Why  not  idealize  the  Doctor  some  ? 

He  wisely  hides  his  heart  from  you  and  me — 
He  hath  grown  tearless,  of  necessity, — 
He  knows  the  sight  is  clearer,  being  blind ; 
He  knows  the  cruel  knife  is  very  kind ; 
Ofttimes  he  must  be  pitiless,  for  thought 
Of  the  remembered  wife  or  child  he  sought 
To  save  through  kindness  that  was  overcome. 
Why  not  idealize  the  Doctor  some  ? 
31 


THE  DOCTOR 

Bear  with  him,  trustful,  in  his  darkest  doubt 

Of  how  the  mystery  of  death  comes  out ; 

He  knows — he  knows, — aye,  better  yet  than  we, 

That  out  of  Time  must  dawn  Eternity ; 

He  knows  his  own  compassion — what  he  would 

Give  in  relief  of  all  ills,  if  he  could. — 

We  wait  alike  one  Master :  He  will  come. 

Do  we  idealize  the  Doctor  some  ? 


"OUT   OF  REACH"? 

You  think  them  "out  of  reach,"  your  dead  ? 

Nay,  by  my  own  dead,  I  deny 
Your  "out  of  reach." — Be  comforted : 

Tis  not  so  far  to  die. 

O  by  their  dear  remembered  smiles 
And  outheld  hands  and  welcoming  speech, 

They  wait  for  us,  thousands  of  miles 
This  side  of  "out-of-reach." 


33 


MY   FOE 

MY  FOE  ?  You  name  yourself,  then, — I  refuse 
A  term  so  dark  to  designate  you  by. 
To  me  you  are  most  kind  and  true ;  and  I 
Am  grateful  as  the  dust  is  for  the  dews 
That  brim  the  dusk,  and  falter,  drip  and  ooze 
From  the  dear  darkness  of  the  summer  sky. 
Vex  not  yourself  for  lack  of  moan  or  cry 
Of  mine.  Not  any  harm,  nor  ache  nor  bruise 
Could  reach  my  soul  through  any  stroke  you  fain 
Might  launch  upon  me, — it  were  as  the  lance 
Even  of  the  lightning  did  it  leap  to  rend 
A  ray  of  sunshine — 'twould  recoil  again. 
So,  blessing  you,  with  pitying  countenance, 
I  wave  a  hand  to  you,  my  helpless  friend. 


34 


THE   RAINY   MORNING 

THE  DAWN  of  the  day  was  dreary, 

And  the  lowering  clouds  o'erhead 
Wept  in  a  silent  sorrow 

Where  the  sweet  sunshine  lay  dead ; 
And  a  wind  came  out  of  the  eastward 

Like  an  endless  sigh  of  pain, 
And  the  leaves  fell  down  in  the  pathway 

And  writhed  in  the  falling  rain. 

I  had  tried  in  a  brave  endeavor 

To  chord  my  harp  with  the  sun, 
But  the  strings  would  slacken  ever, 

And  the  task  was  a  weary  one : 
And  so,  like  a  child  impatient 

And  sick  of  a  discontent, 
I  bowed  in  a  shower  of  teardrops 

And  mourned  with  the  instrument. 
35 


THE  RAINY   MORNING 

And  lo !  as  I  bowed,  the  splendor 

Of  the  sun  bent  over  me, 
With  a  touch  as  warm  and  tender 

As  a  father's  hand  might  be : 
And,  even  as  I  felt  its  presence, 

My  clouded  soul  grew  bright, 
And  the  tears,  like  the  rain  of  morning, 

Melted  in  mists  of  light. 


TO   EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

THE  AUTHORS    CLUB  RECEPTION,  NEW  YORK, 
DECEMBER  6,  1900 

IT  is  a  various  tribute  you  command, 

O  Poet-seer  and  World-sage  in  one ! — 
The  scholar  greets  you ;  and  the  student ;  and 

The  stoic — and  his  visionary  son : 
The  painter,  harvesting  with  quiet  eye 

Your  features ;  and  the  sculptor,  dreaming,  too, 
A  classic  marble  figure,  lifted  high 

Where  Fame's  immortal  ones  are  waiting  you. 

The  man  of  letters,  with  his  wistful  face ; 

The  grizzled  scientist ;  the  young  A.  B. ; 
The  true  historian,  of  force  and  grace ; 

The  orator,  of  pure  simplicity; 
The  journalist — the  editor,  likewise; 

The  young  war-correspondent ;  and  the  old 
War-seasoned  general,  with  sagging  eyes, 

And  nerve  and  hand  of  steel,  and  heart  of  gold. 
37 


TO  EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

The  serious  humorist ;  the  blithe  divine ; 

The  lawyer,  with  that  twinkling  look  he  wears ; 
The  bleak- faced  man  in  the  dramatic  line ; 

The  social  lion — and  the  bulls  and  bears ; 
These — these,  and  more,  O  favored  guest  of  all, 

Have  known  your  benefactions,  and  are  led 
To  pay  their  worldly  homage,  and  to  call 

Down  Heaven's  blessings  on  your  honored 
head. 

Ideal,  to  the  utmost  plea  of  art — 

As  real,  to  labor's  most  exacting  need, — • 
Your  dual  services  of  soul  and  heart 

Enrich  the  world  alike  in  dream  and  deed : 
For  you  have  brought  to  us,  from  out  the  mine 

Delved  but  by  genius  in  scholastic  soil, 
The  blended  treasures  of  a  wealth  divine, — 

Your  peerless  gift  of  song — your  life  of  toil. 


THE   COUNTRY   EDITOR 

A  THOUGHTFUL  brow  and  face — of  sallow  hue, 
But  warm  with  welcome,  as  we  find  him  there, 
Throned  in  his  old  misnomered  "easy  chair," 

Scrawling  a  "leader/'  or  a  book-review ; 

Or  staring  through  the  roof  for  something  new 
With  which  to  lift  a  wretched  rival's  hair, 
Or  blow  some  petty  clique  in  empty  air 

And  snap  the  party-ligaments  in  two. 
A  man  he  is  deserving  well  of  thee, — - 

So  be  compassionate — yea,  pay  thy  dues, 
Nor  pamper  him  with  thy  spring-poetry, 

But  haul  him  wood,  or  something  he  can  use ; 
And  promptly  act,  nor  tarry  long  when  he 
Gnaweth  his  pen  and  glareth  rabidly. 


39 


AN   EMPTY   NEST 

I  FIND  an  old  deserted  nest, 

Half-hidden  in  the  underbrush : 
A  withered  leaf,  in  phantom  jest, 

Has  nestled  in  it  like  a  thrush 
With  weary,  palpitating  breast. 

I  muse  as  one  in  sad  surprise 

Who  seeks  his  childhood's  home  once  more, 
And  finds  it  in  a  strange  disguise 

Of  vacant  rooms  and  naked  floor, 
With  sudden  teardrops  in  his  eyes. 

An  empty  nest !  It  used  to  bear 
A  happy  burden,  when  the  breeze 

Of  summer  rocked  it,  and  a  pair 
Of  merry  tattlers  told  the  trees 

What  treasures  they  had  hidden  there. 
40 


AN   EMPTY   NEST 

But  Fancy,  flitting  through  the  gleams 
Of  youth's  sunshiny  atmosphere, 

Has  fallen  in  the  past,  and  seems, 
Like  this  poor  leaflet  nestled  here, — 

A  phantom  guest  of  empty  dreams. 


HIS  LAST  PICTURE 


THE  SKIES  Have  grown  troubled  and  Hreary ; 

The  clouds  gather  fold  upon  fold ; 
The  hand  of  the  painter  is  weary 

And  the  pencil  has  dropped  from  its  hold : 
The  easel  still  leans  in  the  grasses, 

And  the  palette  beside  on  the  lawn, 
But  the  rain  o'er  the  sketch  as  it  passes 

Weeps  low — for  the  artist  is  gone. 

The  flowers  whose  fairy-like  features 

Smiled  up  in  his  own  as  he  wrought 
And  the  leaves  and  the  ferns  were  his  teachers, 

And  the  tints  of  the  sun  what  they  taught ; 
The  low-swinging  vines,  and  the  mosses — 

The  shadow-filled  boughs  of  the  trees, 
And  the  blossomy  spray  as  it  tosses 

The  song  of  the  bird  to  the  breeze. 
42 


HIS   LAST  PICTURE 

The  silent  white  laugh  of  the  lily 

He  learned ;  and  the  smile  of  the  rose 
Glowed  back  on  his  spirit  until  he 

Had  mastered  the  blush  as  it  glows ; 
And  his  pencil  has  touched  and  caressed  them, 

And  kissed  them,  through  breaths  of  perfume, 
To  the  canvas  that  yet  shall  have  blessed  them 

With  years  of  unwithering  bloom. 

Then  come ! — Leave  his  palette  and  brushes 

And  easel  there,  just  as  his  hand 
Has  left  them,  ere  through  the  dark  hushes 

Of  death,  to  the  shadowy  land, 
He  wended  his  way,  happy-hearted 

As  when,  in  his  youth,  his  rapt  eyes 
Swept  the  pathway  of  Fame  where  it  started, 

To  where  it  wound  into  the  skies. 


43 


HENRY  IRVING 
[OCTOBER  13,  1905] 

Tis  Art  reclaims  him !  By  those  gifts  of  hers 

With  which  so  nobly  she  endowed  his  mind, 

He  brought  back  Shakespeare,  in  quick  grief  and 

glee- 
Tasting  the   world's  salt  tears   and  sweet  ap- 
plause,— 

For,  even  as  through  his  master's,  so  there  ran 
Through  all  his  multitudinous  characters 
Kinship  and  love  and  honor  of  mankind. 
So  all  mankind  shall  grace  his  memory 
In  musing  proudly :  Great  as  his  genius  was, 
Great  likewise  was  the  man. 


'44 


THE  VOICE  OF  PEACE 

INDEPENDENCE  BELL: 
INDIANAPOLIS,  NOVEMBER  17,  1904 

THOUGH  now  forever  still 

Your  voice  of  jubilee — 
We  hear — we  hear,  and  ever  will, 

The  Bell  of  Liberty ! 
Clear  as  the  voice  to  them 

In  that  far  night  agone 
Pealed  from  the  heavens  o'er  Bethlehem, 

The  voice  of  Peace  peals  on ! 

Stir  all  your  memories  up, 

O  Independence  Bell, 
And  pour  from  your  inverted  cup 

The  song  we  love  so  well ! 
As  you  rang  in  the  dawn 

Of  Freedom— tolled  the  knell 
Of  Tyranny, — ring  on — ring  on — 

O  Independence  Bell ! 
45 


(THE  VOICE  OF  PEACE 

Ring  numb  the  wounds  of  wrong 

Unhealed  in  brain  and  breast ; 
With  music  like  a  slumber-song 

Lull  tearful  eyes  to  rest. — 
Ring !    Independence  Bell ! 

Ring  on  till  worlds  to  be 
Shall  listen  to  the  tale  you  tell 

Of  Love  and  Liberty ! 


SOME  IMITATIONS 
I 

POMONA 

(Madison  Caiveiri) 

OH,  the  golden  afternoon ! — 
Like  a  ripened  summer  day 

That  had  fallen  oversoon 
In  the  weedy  orchard-way — • 

As  an  apple,  ripe  in  June. 

He  had  left  his  fishrod  leant 
O'er  the  footlog  by  the  spring — 

Clomb  the  hill-path's  high  ascent, 
Whence  a  voice,  down  showering, 

Lured  him,  wondering  as  he  went. 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

Not  the  voice  of  bee  nor  bird, 
Nay,  nor  voice  of  man  nor  child, 

Nor  the  creek's  shoal-alto  heard 
Blent  with  warblings  sweet  and  wild 

Of  the  midstream,  music-stirred; 

'Twas  a  goddess !  As  the  air 
Swirled  to  eddying  silence,  he 

Glimpsed  about  him,  half  aware 
Of  some  subtle  sorcery 

Woven  round  him  everywhere. 

Suavest  slopes  of  pleasaunce,  sown 
With  long  lines  of  fruited  trees 

Weighed  o'er  grasses  all  unmown 
But  by  scythings  of  the  breeze 

In  prone  swaths  that  flashed  and  shone 

Like  silk  locks  of  Faunus  sleeked 
This,  that  way,  and  contrawise, 

Thro'  whose  bredes  ambrosial  leaked 
Oily  amber  sheens  and  dyes, 

Starred  with  petals  purple-freaked. 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

Here  the  bellflower  swayed  and  swung, 
Greenly  bel fried  high  amid 

Thick  leaves  in  whose  covert  sung 
Hermit-thrush,  or  katydid, 

Or  the  glowworm  nightly  clung. 

Here  the  damson,  peach  and  pear ; 

There  the  plum,  in  Tyrian  tints, 
Like  great  grapes  in  clusters  rare ; 

And  the  metal-heavy  quince 
Like  a  plummet  dangled  there. 

All  etherial,  yet  all 

Most  material, — a  theme 
Of  some  fabled  festival — 

Save  the  fair  face  of  his  dream 
Smiling  o'er  the  orchard  wall. 


49 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

II 
THE  PASSING  OF  A  ZEPHYR 

(Sidney  Lanier) 

UP  from,  and  out  of,  and  over  the  opulent  woods 

and  the  plains, 
Lo!  I  leap  nakedly  loose,  as  the  nudest  of  gods 

•might  choose, 

For  to  dash  me  away  through  the  morning  dews 
And  the  rathe  Spring  rains — 
Pat  and  pet  the  little  green  leaves  of  the  trees  and 

the  grass, 

Till  they  seem  to  linger  and  cling,  as  I  pass, 
And  are  touched  to  delicate  contemporaneous 

tears  of  the  rain  and  the  dew, 
That  lure  mine  eyes  to  weeping  likewise,  and  to 

laughter,  too : 
For  I  am  become  as  the  balmiest,  stormiest 

zephyr  of  Spring, 
With  manifold  beads  of  the  marvelous  dew  and 

the  rain  to  string 

On  the  bended  itrands  of  the  blossoms,  blown 
And  tossed  and  tousled  and  overthrown, 
50 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

And  shifted  and  whirled,  and  lifted  unfurled 

In  the  victory  of  the  blossoming 

Of  the  flags  of  the  flowery  world. 

Yea,  and  behold !  and  a  riotous  zephyr,  at  last, 

I  subside ;  I  abate ;  I  pass  by ;  I  am  past. 

And  the  small,  hoarse  bass  of  the  bumble-bee 

Is  my  requiem-psalm, 

And  I  fling  me  down  to  a  listless,  loitering,  long 

eternity 
Of  amiable  calm. 


Ill 

EF  UNCLE  REMUS  PLEASE  TER  'SCUSEN   ME 

I 

(Joel  Chandler  Harris) 

DEY  wunce  wuz  er  time  which  I  gwineter  tell  you 

'bout  it— 
An'  it's  easy  ter  believe  it  sho'ly  ez  it  is  ter  doubt 

it!— 

5' 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

So  des  you  pick  yer  "ruthers"  whilse  I  tell  how 

ole  Br'er  Rabbit 
Wunce  know  de  time  when  he  git  de  fightin' 

habit. 
Co'se  he  ain't  no  bragger,  des  a-rippin'  an* 

a-rarin' 
An'  a-darin'  all  de  beestus  an'  a-des  a-double- 

darin' 
Sich  ez  Mr.  Jonus  Lion,  er  Sir  Mr.  Twister 

Tagger, 
Er  Sister  Hisstopottomus,  er  A'nt  Fer jinny 

Ja'gger ! 
Yit,  des  de  same,  he  lay  in'  low  an'  know  he  got  de 

muscle 
What  sho'  ter  s'prise  mos'  any  size  what  crowd 

'im  fer  a  tussle. — 
But  speshully  he  'spise  de  Dawg,  an'  sight  'er  one 

des  make  'im 
Fergit  hisse'f  an'  run  'em  down  an'  grab  'em  up 

an'  shake  'em! — 
An',  mo'  'n  dat,  ef  'twuzn't  fer  de  Dawg-law  den 

ag'in  it, 
He'd  des  a-kilt  off  ev'y  Dawg  dat's  chasin'  him 

dis  minute ! 

52 


SOME   IMITATIONS 

IV 

A  RHYME   FOR   CHRISTMAS 

IF  Browning  only  were  here, 

This  yule-ish  time  o'  the  year — 

This  mule-ish  time  o'  the  year, 

Stubbornly  still  refusing 

To  add  to  the  rhymes  we've  been  using 

Since  the  first  Christmas-glee 

(One  might  say)  chantingly 

Rendered  by  rudest  hinds 

Of  the  pelt-clad  shepherding  kinds 

Who  didn't  know  Song  from  b- 

U-double-1's-f  oot !— pah  !— 

(Haply  the  old  Egyptian  ptah — 

Though  I'd  hardly  wager  a  baw- 

Bee — or  a  bumble,  for  that — 

And  that's  flat!) 

But  the  thing  that  I  want  to  get  at 
Is  a  rhyme  for  Christmas — 
Nay !  nay !  nay !  nay !  not  isthmus — 
The  t-  and  the  h-sounds  covertly  are 
Gnawing  the  nice  auricular 
53 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

Senses  until  one  may  hear  them  gnar — » 

And  the  terminal,  too,  for  mas  is  rcms, 

So  that  will  not  do  for  us. 

Try  for  it — sigh  for  it — cry  for  it— die  for  it ! 

O  but  if  Browning  were  here  to  apply  for  it, 

He'd  rhyme  you  Christmas — 

He'd  make  a  mist  pass 

Over — something  o'  ruther — 

Or  find  you  the  rhyme's  very  brother 

In  lovers  that  kissed  fast 

To  baffle  the  moon — as  he'd  lose  the  /-final 

In  fas-t  as  it  blended  with  to  (mark  the  spinal 

Elision — tip-dipt  as  exquisitely  nicely 

And  hyper-exactingly  sliced  to  precisely 

The  extremest  technical  need)  :   Or  he'd  twist 

glass, 

Or  he'd  have  a  kissed  lass, 

Or  shake  'neath  our  noses  some  great  giant  fist- 
mass — 

No  matter !  If  Robert  were  here,  he  could  do  it, 
Though  it  took  us  till  Christmas  next  year  to  see 
through  it. 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

V 

VAUDEVILLE  SKITS 
i 

SERENADE  AT  THE  CABIN 

OH,  my  little  Sadie  Sue,  I's  a-serenadin'  you — 

Fer  you's  de  onliest  lady-love  o'  mine ; 
De  White  Folk's  dance  done  over,  I  has  still  a 

chune  er  two 

Below  your  winder's  mohnin'-glory-vine. 
Your  good  ole  mammy's  gyarden  is,  fer  shore,  a 

ha'nted  place, 
Dis  midnight  whilse  I's  cropin'  'mongst  de 

bloom; 
Yit  de  moon  dah  'bove  de  chimbly  ain'  no  fairer 

dan  de  face 
What's  hidin'  'hind  de  curtain  o'  your  room. 

Chorus 

Den  wake,  my  colored  blonde  with  eyes  o'  blue, 
An'  lips  ez  red  ez  roses  renshed  with  dew; 

Yo'  hair  ez  fair  an'  fine 

Ez  de  skeins  o'  June  sunshine, 
My  little,  light-complected  Sadie  Sue ! 
55 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

In  de  "Gran's"  old  dinin'-hall,  playin'  fer  de 

White  Folk's  ball, 

I  watch  deir  pick  o'  ladies  ez  dey  glide, 
An'  says  I,  "My  Sadie  Sue  she  'ud  shorely  best 

you  all 

Ef  she  'uz  here  a-waltzin'  by  my  side !" 
Den  I  laugh  all  to  myse'f-like,  ez  I  swipe  de 

twangin'  strings 

An*  shet  my  eyes  in  sweetest  dreams  o'  you, — 
Fer  yo're  my  heart's  own  music  dat  forever 

beats  an'  sings — 
My  soul's  own  serenade — my  Sadie  Sue ! 

Chorus 

Den  wake,  my  colored  blonde  with  eyes  o'  blue, 
An'  lips  ez  red  ez  roses  renshed  with  dew; 

Yo'  hair  ez  fair  and  fine 

Ez  de  skeins  of  June  sunshine, 
My  little,  light-complected  Sadie  Sue ! 


SOME  IMITATIONS" 


VI 


CHUCK  S   KOODOOS 

CHUCK'S  allus  had  de  Koodoos  bad ! — 

Do  what  he  kin  to  lose  'em, 
Dey  track  dat  coon,  by  sun  er  moon, 

Des  like  dey  cain't  uxcuse  'im ! 
An'  more  he  gyaurd  'em  off,  more  hard 

Hit  'pear-like  dat  dey  press  'im — 
De  onliest  luck  dey  'low  ole  Chuck 

Is  dis  enough  to  'stress  'im ! 

He  taken  care — no  matter  where 

He's  walkin'  'long  de  street  an' 
See  any  ladder  leanin'  there, 

Er  cross-eyed  man  he's  meetin' — 
Dat  eye  o'  his  ketch  wher'  dey  is, 

An',  quick  as  "scat,"  Chuck's  hittin' 
De  curb  outside,  an'  watch  wile-eyed 

Fust  lef '-han'  place  to  spit  in ! 


57 


SOME  IMITATIONS 

He'  got  toenails  o'  bats ;  an'  snails 

Shet  hot  in  deir  shell-houses 
Wid  sealin'-wax ;  an'  little  backs 

O'  turkles  in  his  trouse's : 
A  moleskin'-puY ;  an'  possum's  han' — 

Des  ever'  charm  an'  wonder — 
An'  barber-chair  o'  shore  hosshair — 

An'  hoss-shoe  hangin'  under ! 

"An*  yit,"  says  Chuck,  "I  got  no  luck:- 

De  Koodoos  still  a-bafflin' 
Dis  po'  ole  saint  what  knows  he  ain't — 

'Twix'  shootin'  craps  an'  rafflin' ! 
No  overcoat — ner  underwear, — 

Right  on  de  aidge  o'  winter 
I's  up  aginst  de  wust  layout 

Dey's  ever  got  me  inter !" 


OUR  LITTLE   GIRU 

HER  HEART  knew  naught  of  sorrow, 

Nor  the  vaguest  taint  of  sin — 
'Twas  an  ever-blooming  blossom 

Of  the  purity  within : 
And  her  hands  knew  only  touches 

Of  the  mother's  gentle  care, 
And  the  kisses  and  caresses 

Through  the  interludes  of  prayer. 

Her  baby-feet  had  journeyed 

Such  a  little  distance  here, 
They  could  have  found  no  briars 

In  the  path  to  interfere ; 
The  little  cross  she  carried 

Could  not  weary  her,  we  know, 
For  it  lay  as  lightly  on  her 

As  a  shadow  on  the  snow. 
59 


OUR   LITTLE   GIRL 


And  yet  the  way  before  us — 

O  how  empty  now  and  drear ! — 
How  ev'n  the  dews  of  roses 

Seem  as  dripping  tears  for  her ! 
And  the  songbirds  all  seem  crying, 

As  the  winds  cry  and  the  rain, 
All  sobbingly,-— "We  want—we  want 

Our  little  girl  again !" 


60 


A  GOOD   MAN 


A  GOGI.  MAN  never  dies — 

In  worthy  deed  and  prayer 
And  helpful  hands,  and  honest  eyes, 

If  smiles  or  tears  be  there : 
Who  lives  for  you  and  me — 

Lives  for  the  world  he  tries 
To  help — he  lives  eternally. 

A  good  man  never  dies. 

II 

Who  lives  to  bravely  take 

His  share  of  toil  and  stress, 
And,  for  his  weaker  fellows'  sake, 

Makes  every  burden  less, — 
He  may,  at  last,  seem  worn — 

Lie  fallen — hands  and  eyes 
Folded — yet,  though  we  mourn  and  mourn, 

A  good  man  never  dies. 
61 


NICHOLAS   OBERTING 


'A  hero  of  ancient  mold  is  Nicholas  Oberting, 
of  Hardentown,  Indiana,  who,  a  few  days  ago,  in 
saving  three  boys  from  being  gored  to  death  by 
his  infuriated  bull,  performed  a  feat  of  daring 
comparable  only  with  the  valorous  deeds  of  Ro- 
man gladiators 

— Indianapolis  Star,  February  25, 1906. 

SING  !  O  Voice  of  Valor,  sing ! — 
Sing  of  Nicholas  Oberting ! 
Giant  of  the  strength  of  ten, 
Yet  the  gentlest  of  all  men. 

He  it  was  that  loved  the  air, 
And  the  green  fields  everywhere — 
Loved  the  meadow  slopes  and  rills, 
And  the  cattle  on  the  hills — 
Loved  all  out-o'-doors,  and  took 
Off  his  hatj  with  reverent  look, 
62 


NICHOLAS  OBERTING 

'As  tHe  balmy  winds  of  Spring 

Waved  the  peach-bough,  blossoming 

At  the  orchard  edge,  where  he 

Paused  to  mark  the  minstrelsy 

Of  the  daring  first  redbreast, 

Whose  lilt,  at  its  loveliest, 

Was  not  lovelier  to  hear 

Than  the  laughter,  ringing  near, 

Of  child-voices — Truants, — three 

Little  stragglers,  he  could  see, 

Crossing  the  near  pasture-land 

Loiteringly,  hand  in  hand, 

Laughing  as  they  came.  .  .  .  Until — 

Sudden  ran  a  sickening  chill 

Through  the  strong  man's  heart !  .  .  .  He  heard 

Scarce  his  own  voice,  afterward, 

For  the  maddened,  bellowing  roar 

Of  the  monster  beast  that  bore 

Down  upon  the  lads.  .  .  .  Out  rang 

His  quick  warning. — Then  he  sprang 

Forth  to  meet  them,  crying,  "Run! — 

Straight  for  me! — Come  on! — Well  done!" — 

Praised  them — cheered  them. — "Good!  Hooray! 

Now,  Red-top,  you  throw  away 

63 


NICHOLAS  OBERTING 

That  cap!  but  'don't'—  And  breathless  Hung 
The  sentence ; — for  a  root  had  flung 
The  youngster — stunned — prone  on  the 

ground  .  .  . 

Then — midst  a  trampling,  thund'rous  sound, 
The  bellowing  beast,  with  his  big  bent  head, 
And  great  horns,  white  as  his  eyes  were  red ! — 
Charged  for  the  lad,  as  he  helpless  lay    .    .    ^ 
There  was  a  leap  then ;  and — they  say — 
(For  but  one  boy  had  swooned  away) — 
There  was  the  leap  and  the  laugh  of  a  Man   .   . 
And  the  bravest  war  of  the  world  began : 
Pinned  by  the  horns  in  the  Hercules  grip 
Of  his  master — the  slavering  jaws  adrip, 
The  foaming,  steaming,  sweltering,  hot- 
Mouthed  monster  raged  and  charged  and 

fought, — 

But  ever  the  great  strong  hands  were  set 
At  their  horny  leverage,  bloody-wet ; 
And  ever  steadier  pressed  the  hold, 
And  ever  the  wild  eyes  wilder  rolled 
As  the  thick  neck  turned,  and  the  great  Hulk 

grew 
Like  an  o'er-fed  engine,  shuddering  through — 

64 


NICHOLAS   OBERTING 

Yet  the  thick  neck  turned — and  turned — and 

turned — 
Till  the  raw  tongue  shot  from  the  throat  and 

burned 

The  live  air  foul ;  and  the  beast  lurched  dead 
Crunchingly. 

And  the  youngsters  said 

That  the  big  man  just  lay  there  and  cried — 
He  was  so  sorry  and  satisfied ! 


THE   ROSE-LADY 

TO  THE  ROSES 

I  DREAM  that  you  are  kisses  Allah  sent 
In  forms  material,  that  all  the  earth 
May  taste  of  you  and  guess  of  Heaven's  worth, 

Since  it  can  waste  such  sweetness  with  content, — 

Seeing  you  showered  o'er  the  Battlement — 
By  Angel-hands  plucked  ripe  from  lips  of  mirth 
And  flung  in  lavish  clusters,  yet  no  dearth 

Of  rapture  for  the  Anthem !    .    .    .    I  have  bent 
Above  you,  nestled  in  some  low  retreat, 

Pressing  your  velvet  mouths  against  the  dust, 
And,  ever  nurturing  this  old  conceit, 

Have  lifted  up  your  lips  in  perfect  trust 
Against  my  mouth,  nor  found  them  the  less 

sweet 
For  having  kissed  the  dust  beneath  my  feet. 


OURS 
LOUISVILLE,  KENTUCKY,  DECEMBER  8,  1906 

Read  at  Banquet  in  Honor  of  'Henry  Watterson 
Upon  His  Departure  for  Spain. 

HERE  where  of  old  was  heard 
The  ringing,  singing  word 
That  orator  and  bard 

Alike  set  free 

To  soar,  through  heights  profound, 
Our  land's  remotest  bound, 
Till  all  is  holy  ground 

From  sea  to  sea — 

Here  still,  with  voice  and  pen, 
ONE  cheers  the  hopes  of  men 
And  gives  us  faith  again— 

This  gifted  one 
We  hold  here  as  the  guest 
Most  honored — loved  the  best — 
Wisest  and  worthiest — 

Our  Watterson. 


OURS 

His  spirit  is  the  Seer's — 
For,  though  he  sees  and  hears 
Through  human  doubts  and  fears, 

His  heart  is  one 
With  Earth's  and  the  Divine— 
With  his  home-hearts — and  mine — 
And  the  child's  heart  is  thine, 

Our  Watterson ! 

Give  us  to  touch  and  praise 
His  worth  in  subtlest  ways, — 
Lest  even  our  fondest  gaze 

He  fain  would  shun — 
Laugh,  though  a  mist  appears — 
The  glad  wine  salt  with  tears — 
Laugh,  as  we  drain  it — "Here's 

Our  Watterson!" 


68 


AMERICA 
SEPTEMBER  14,  1901 

0  Thou,  America — Messiah  of  Nations! 

I 
IN  THE  NEED  that  bows  us  thus, 

America ! 
Shape  a  mighty  song  for  us — 

America ! 

Song  to  whelm  a  hundred  years' 
Roar  of  wars  and  rain  of  tears 
'Neath  a  world's  triumphant  cheers : 

America!  America! 

II 
Lift  the  trumpet  to  thy  mouth, 

America ! 
East  and  West  and  North  and  South — 

America ! 

Call  us  round  the  dazzling  shrine 
Of  the  starry  old  ensign — 
New-baptized  in  blood  of  thine, 

America!  America! 

69 


AMERICA 
III 

Dying  eyes  through  pitying  mists, 

America ! 
See  the  Assassin's  shackled  wrists, 

America ! 

Patient  eyes  that  turn  their  sight 
From  all  blackening  crime  and  blight 
Still  toward  Heaven's  holy  light — 

America!  America! 


IV 

High  overlooking  sea  and  land, 

America ! 
Trustfully  with  outheld  hand, 

America ! 

Thou  dost  welcome  all  in  quest 
Of  thy  freedom,  peace  and  rest — 
Every  exile  is  thy  guest, 

America!  America! 


70 


AMERICA 


Thine  a  universal  love, 

America ! 
Thine  the  cross  and  crown  thereof, 

America ! 

Aid  us,  then,  to  sing  thy  worth : 
God  hath  builded,  from  thy  birth, 
The  first  nation  of  the  earth — 

America!  America! 


A  HOOSIER  CALENDAR 

JANUARY 

BLEAK  JANUARY  !  Cold  as  fate, 
And  ever  colder — ever  keener — 

Our  very  hair  cut  while  we  wait 
By  winds  that  clip  it  ever  cleaner : 

Cold  as  a  miser's  buried  gold, 

Or  nether-deeps  of  old  tradition — 

Jeems  January!  you're  a  cold 
Proposition ! 

FEBRUARY 

You,  February, — seem  to  be 
Old  January's  understudy, 
But  play  the  part  too  vaudeville^-y, — 

With  wind  too  moist  and  snow  too  muddy- 
You  overfreeze  and  overthaw — 

Your  "Hos'ler  Jo"-like  recitation 
But  hints  that  you're,  at  best,  a  raw 
Imitation. 

72 


A  HOOSIER  CALENDAR 

MARCH 

And,  March,  you've  got  no  friends  to  spare — 
Warm  friends,  I  mean — unless  coal-dealers, 

Or  gas-well  owners,  pipin'  where 
The  piper's  paid — above  all  spielers ; 

You  are  a  month,  too,  of  complex 
Perversities  beyond  solution — • 

A  sorto'  "loveliest  of  your  sex" 
Institution ! 


APRIL 

But,  April,  when  you  kindo'  come 
A-sa'nterin'  down  along  our  roadway, 

The  bars  is  down,  and  we're  at  home, 
And  you're  as  welcome  as  a  show-day ! 

First  thing  we  know,  the  sunshine  falls 
Spring-like,  and  drenches  all  Creation 

With  that-ere  ba'm  the  poets  calls 
"Inspiration." 


73 


A   HOOSIER  CALENDAR 


MAY 

And  May! — It's  warmin'  jest  to  see 

The  crick  thawed  clear  ag'in  and  dancin' — 

Tear-like  it's  tickled  'most  as  me 

A-prancin'  'crosst  it  with  my  pants  on ! 

And  then  to  hear  the  bluebird  whet 

His  old  song  up  and  lance  it  through  you, 

Clean  through  the  boy's  heart  beatin'  yet — 
Hallylooya  1 

JUNE 

June — 'LI,  I  jest  git  doped  on  June ! — 
The  trees  and  grass  all  at  their  greenest — 

The  round  earth  swung  'twixt  sun  and  moon, 
Jest  at  its — so  to  say — serenest : — 

In  country, — stars  and  whipperwills ; 
In  town, — all  night  the  boys  invadin' 

Leadin'  citizens'  winder-sills, 
Sair-a-nadin*. 


74 


A   HOOSIER  CALENDAR 


JULY 

Fish  still  a-bitin' — some;  but  'most 

Too  hot  fer  anything  but  layin' 
Jest  do-less  like,  and  watchin'  clo'st 

The  treetops  and  the  squirrels  playin' — 
Their  tail-tips  switched  'bove  knot  and  limb, 

But  keepin'  most  in  sequestration — 
Leavin'  a  big  part  to  the  im- 
Magination. 

AUGUST 

Now  when  it's  August — I  can  tell 
It  by  a  hunderd  signs  and  over ; — 

They  is  a  mixed  ripe-apple-smell 
And  mashed-down  grass  and  musty  clover ; 

Bees  is  as  lazy  'most  as  me — 

Bee-bird  eats  'em — gap's  his  wings  out 

So  lazy  'at  I  don't  think  he 

Spits  their  stings  out ! 


75 


A  HOOSIER  CALENDAR 

SEPTEMBER 

September,  you  appeal  to  all, 

Both  young  and  old,  lordly  and  lowly ; 
You  stuff  the  hay-mow,  trough  and  stall, 

Till  horse  and  cow's  as  roly-poly 
As  pigs  is,  slopped  on  buttermilk 

And  brand,  shipstuff  and  'tater-peelin's- 
And  folks,  too,  feelin'  fine  as  silk 
With  all  their  feelin's! 


OCTOBER 

If  I'd  be'n  asked  for  my  advice, 

And  thought  the  thing  out,  ca'm  and  sober 
Sizin'  the  months  all  once  or  twice, — 

I'd  la'nch'd  the  year  out  with  October.  .  . 
All  Nature  then  jest  veiled  and  dressed 

In  weddin'  gyarments,  ornamented 
With  ripe-fruit-gems — and  kissin'  jest 
New-invented ! 


A  HOOSIER  CALENDAR 


NOVEMBER 

I'm  'feared  November's  hopes  is  few 

And  far  between ! — Cold  as  a  Monday- 
Washday,  er  a  lodge-man  who 

You'  got  to  pallbear  for  on  Sunday ; 
Colder  and  scolder  every  day — 

The  fixed  official  time  for  sighin', — 
A  sinkin'  state  you  jest  can't  stay 
In,  or  die  in ! 

DECEMBER 

December — why,  of  course  we  grin 
And  bear  it — shiverin'  every  minute, 

Yet  warm  from  time  the  month  rolls  in 
Till  it  skites  out  with  Christmas  in  it ; 

And  so,  for  all  its  coldest  truths 

And  chill,  goose-pimpled  imperfections, 

It  wads  our  lank  old  socks  with  Youth's 
Recollections. 


77. 


AH  AUTUMNAL  TONIC 

WHAT  mystery  is  it  ?  The  morning  as  rare 

As  the  Indian  Summer  may  bring ! 
A  tang  in  the  frost  and  a  spice  in  the  air 

That  no  city  poet  can  sing ! 
The  crimson  and  amber  and  gold  of  the  leaves, 

As  they  loosen  and  flutter  and  fall 
In  the  path  of  the  park,  as  it  rustlingly  weaves 
Its  way  through  the  maples  and  under  the  eaves 

Of  the  sparrows  that  chatter  and  call. 

What  hint  of  delight  is  it  tingles  me  through  ? — 

What  vague,  indefinable  joy? 
What  yearning  for  something  divine  that  I  knew 

When  a  wayward  and  wood-roving  boy  ? 
Ah-ha !  and  O-ho !  but  I  have  it,  I  say — 

Oh,  the  mystery  brightens  at  last,- — 
'Tis  the  longing  and  zest  of  the  far,  far  away, 
For  a  bountiful,  old-fashioned  dinner  to-day, 

With  the  hale  harvest-hands  of  the  past. 


A   HUMBLE   SINGER 

A  MODEST  singer,  with  meek  soul  and  heart, 
Sat,  yearning  that  his  art 
Might  but  inspire  and  suffer  him  to  sing 
Even  the  simplest  thing. 

And  as  he  sang  thus  humbly,  came  a  Voice  :- 
"All  mankind  shall  rejoice, 
Hearing  thy  pure  and  simple  melody 
Sing  on  immortally." 


79 


THE   LITTLE   WOMAN 

MY  LITTLE  WOMAN,  of  you  I  sing 

With  a  fervor  all  divine, — 
For  I  know  the  clasp  of  the  hands  that  cling 

So  closely  here  in  mine. 

Though  the  rosy  palms  I  used  to  press 

Are  faded  and  worn  with  care, 
And  tremulous  is  the  old  caress 

That  nestles  in  my  hair, — 

Your  heart  to  me  is  a  changeless  page ; 

I  have  read  it  bit  by  bit, 
From  the  dawn  of  love  to  the  dusk  of  age, — 

And  the  tale  is  Holy  Writ. 

Fold  your  eyes, — for  the  twilight  bends 

As  a  mother  o'er  her  child — 
Even  as  when,  in  the  long-lost  Then, 

You  bent  o'er  ours  and  smiled.  .  .  „ 
80 


THE   LITTLE   WOMAN 

( Nay,  but  I  spoke  all  unaware ! 

See !  I  am  kneeling,  too, 
And  with  mine,  dear,  is  the  rose's  prayer, 

With  a  blur  of  tears  and  dew.) 

But  O  little  woman,  I  often  grieve, 

As  I  think  of  the  vanished  years 
And  trace  the  course  of  the  cares  that  leave 

Your  features  dim  with  tears : 

I  often  grieve,  for  the  frowns  I  wore 
When  the  world  seemed  all  untrue, — • 

When  my  hard,  proud  heart  was  sick  and  sore 
And  would  not  come  to  you ! 

I  often  grieve,  as  I  hold  your  hand — 

As  I  hold  your  hand  to-night, — 
That  it  takes  so  long  to  understand 

The  lesson  of  love  aright ! 

But  sing  the  song  that  I  taught  you  once, 

Dear  little  woman,  as  then — 
Away  far  back  in  the  golden  months ; — 

Sing  me  the  song  again ! 


81 


THE  LITTLE   WOMAN 

For,  as  under  the  stars  we  loved  of  yore 
When  the  nights  of  love  were  long, 

[Your  poor,  pale  lips  grow  glad  once  more 
And  I  kiss  them  into  song  :— 

'My  little  woman's  hands  are  fair. 

rAs  even  the  moonHowers  be 
'When  fairies  creep  in  their  depths  and  sleep 

'Till  the  sun  leaps  out  o'  the  sea. 

'And  0  her  eyes,  they  are  spheres  of  light — 

So  brighter  than  stars  are  they. 
The  brightest  day  is  the  darkest  night 

When  my  little  woman's  away. 

For  my  little  woman  has  ever  a  tear 

rAnd  a  sigh  when  I  am  sad; 
'And  I  have  a  thousand  smiles  for  her 

When  my  little  woman  is  glad. 

But  my  little  woman  is  strong  and  brave, 

For  all  of  her  tears  and  sighs, 
Her  stanch  little  heart  knows  how  to  behave 

Whenever  the  storms  arise. 


82 


THE   LITTLE   WOMAN 


My  little  woman,  of  you  I  sing 

With  a  fervor  all  divine, — 
For  I  know  the  clasp  of  the  hands  that  cling 

So  closely  here  in  mine. 


A  SPRING   SONG  AND  A   LATER 

SHE  sang  a  song  of  May  for  me, 

Wherein  once  more  I  heard 
The  mirth  of  my  glad  infancy — 

The  orchard's  earliest  bird — 
The  joyous  breeze  among  the  trees 

New-clad  in  leaf  and  bloom, 
And  there  the  happy  honey-bees 

In  dewy  gleam  and  gloom. 

So  purely,  sweetly  on  the  sense 

Of  heart  and  spirit  fell 
Her  song  of  Spring,  its  influence — 

Still  irresistible, — 
Commands  me  here — with  eyes  ablur— 

To  mate  her  bright  refrain, 
Though  I  but  shed  a  rhyme  for  her 

As  dim  as  Autumn  rain. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  CHILDLESS 

THE  Children  of  the  Childless ! — Yours — and 

mine. — 

Yea,  though  we  sit  here  in  the  pitying  gaze 
Of  fathers  and  mothers  whose  fond  fingers  twine 
Their  children's  locks  of  living  gold,  and  praise 
With  warm,  caressing  palms,  the  head  of  brown, 
Or  crown 

Of  opulent  auburn,  with  its  amber  floss 
In  all  its  splendor  loosed  and  jostled  down 
Across 

The  mother-lap  at  prayer. — Yea,  even  when 
These  sweet  petitioners  are  kissed,  and  then 
Are  kissed  and  kissed  again — 
The  pursed  mouths  lifted  with  the  worldlier 

prayer 

That  bed  and  oblivion  spare 
Them  yet  a  little  while 
Beside  their  envied  elders  by  the  glow 
Of  the  glad  firelight ;  or  wresting,  as  they  go, 

85 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE   CHILDLESS 

Some  promise  for  the  morrow,  to  beguile 
Their  long  exile 

Within  the  wild  waste  lands  of  dream  and  sleep. 
Nay,  nay,  not  even  these  most  stably  real 
Of  children  are  more  loved  than  our  ideal — 
More  tangible  to  the  soul's  touch  and  sight 
Than  these — our  children  by  Divine  birth- 
right. .  .  . 
These — these  of  ours,  who  soothe  us,  when  we 

weep, 

With  tenderest  ministries, 
Or,  flashing  into  smiling  ecstasies, 
Come  dashing  through  our  tears — aye,  laughing 

leap 

Into  our  empty  arms,  in  Fate's  despite, 
And  nestle  to  our  hearts.  O  Heaven's  delight ! — 
The  children  of  the  childless — even  these! 


86 


LINCOLN— THE  BOY 

O  SIMPLE  as  the  rhymes  that  tell 

The  simplest  tales  of  youth, 
Or  simple  as  a  miracle 

Beside  the  simplest  truth — 
So  simple  seems  the  view  we  share 

With  our  Immortals,  sheer 
From  Glory  looking  down  to  where 

They  were  as  children  here. 

Or  thus  we  know,  nor  doubt  it  not, 

The  boy  he  must  have  been 
Whose  budding  heart  bloomed  with 
the  thought 

All  men  are  kith  and  kin — 
With  love-light  in  his  eyes  and  shade 

Of  prescient  tears : — Because 
Only  of  such  a  boy  were  made 

The  loving  man  he  was. 


WHAT   TITLE? 

WHAT  TITLE  best  befits  the  man 

We  hold  our  first  American  ? 

Or  Statesman ;  Soldier ;  Hero ;  Chief, 

Whose  Country  is  his  first  belief ; 

Or  sanest,  safest  Leader ;  or 

True  Patriot ;  or  Orator, 

Heard  still  at  Inspiration's  height, 

Because  he  speaks  for  truth  and  right : 

Or  shall  his  people  be  content 

With  Our  Republic's  President, 

Or  trust  his  ringing  worth  to  live 

In  song  as  Chief  Executive  ? 

Nay — his  the  simplest  name — though  set 

Upon  him  like  a  coronet, — 

God  names  our  first  American 

The  highest,  noblest  name — The  MAN. 


GENERAL  LEW  WALLACE 
FEBRUARY  15,  1905 

NAY,  Death,  thou  mightiest  of  all 

Dread  conquerors — thou  dreadest  chief,- 
Thy  heavy  hand  can  here  but  fall 

Light  as  the  Autumn  leaf : 
As  vainly,  too,  its  weight  is  laid 

Upon  the  warrior's  knightly  sword ; — 
Still  through  the  charge  and  cannonade 

It  flashes  for  the  Lord. 

In  forum — as  in  battlefield — 

His  voice  rang  for  the  truth — the  right- 
Keyed  with  the  shibboleth  that  pealed 

His  Soul  forth  to  the  fight : 
The  inspiration  of  his  pen 

Glowed  as  a  star,  and  lit  anew 
The  faces  and  the  hearts  of  men 

Watching,  the  long  night  through. 

89 


GENERAL   LEW   WALLACE 

A  destiny  ordained — divine 

It  seemed  to  hosts  of  those  who  saw 
His  rise  since  youth  and  marked  the  line 

Of  his  ascent  with  awe : — 
From  the  now-storied  little  town 

That  gave  him  birth  and  worth,  behold, 
Unto  this  day  of  his  renown, 

His  sword  and  word  of  gold. 

Serving  the  Land  he  loved  so  well — 

Hailed  midsea  or  in  foreign  port, 
Or  in  strange-bannered  citadel 

Or  Oriental  Court, — 
He — honored  for  his  Nation's  sake, 

And  loved  and  honored  for  his  own — 
Hath  seen  his  Flag  in  glory  shake 

Above  the  Pagan  Throne. 


90 


THE  HOOSIER  IN  EXILE 

THE  Hoosier  in  Exile — a  toast 

That  by  its  very  sound 
Moves  us,  at  first,  to  tears  almost, 

And  sympathy  profound ; 
But  musing  for  a  little  space, 

We  lift  the  glass  and  smile, 
And  poise  it  with  a  royal  grace — 

The  Hoosier  in  Exile ! 

The  Hoosier  in  Exile,  forsooth  ! 

For  though  his  steps  may  roam 
The  earth's  remotest  bounds,  in  truth 

His  heart  is  ever  home ! 
O  loyal  still  to  every  tie 

Of  native  fields  and  streams, 
His  boyhood  friends,  and  paths  whereby 

He  finds  them  in  his  dreams ! 

Though  he  may  fare  the  thronging  maze 

Of  alien  city  streets, 
His  thoughts  are  set  in  grassy  ways 

And  woodlands'  cool  retreats ; 
91 


THE  HOOSIER  IN   EXILE 

Forever,  clear  and  sweet  above 

The  traffic's  roar  and  din, 
In  breezy  groves  he  hears  the  dove, 

And  is  at  peace  within. 

When  newer  friends  and  generous  hands 

Advance  him ;  he  returns 
Due  gratefulness,  yet,  pausing,  stands 

As  one  who  strangely  yearns 
To  pay  still  further  thanks,  but  sighs 

To  think  he  knows  not  where, 
Till — like  as  life — with  misty  eyes 

He  sees  his  mother  there. 

The  Hoosier  in  Exile  ?  Ah,  well, 

Accept  the  phrase,  but  know 
The  Hoosier  heart  must  ever  dwell 

Where  orchard  blossoms  grow 
The  whitest,  apples  reddest,  and, 

In  cornlands,  mile  on  mile, 
The  old  homesteads  forever  stand — 

"The  Hoosier  in  Exile  I" 


92 


CHRISTINE 

"Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall/' 

— Tennyson. 

MOST  quaintly  touching,  in  her  German  tongue — 
Haply,  had  he  but  mastered  that  as  well 
As  she  his  English,  this  were  not  to  tell : — 

Touring  through  her  dear  Fatherland,  the  young 

American  first  found  her,  as  she  sung 

"Du  bist  mir  nah  und  dock  so  fern,"  while  fell 
Their  eyes  together,  and  the  miracle 

Of  love  and  doom  was  wrought.     Her  father 

wrung 
The  lovers  from  each  other's  arms  forever — 

Forgive  him,  all  forgiving  souls  that  can ! 

She  died  that  selfsame  hour — just  paused  to 

write 
Her  broken  heart's  confession  thus:   "I  never 

Was  oh  so  loving  in  a  young  gentleman 
Than  yet  I  am  to  you.   So  ist'  Good  night." 


93 


YOU  MAY  NOT  REMEMBER 


In  the  deep  grave's  charmed  chamber, 
Lying  tranced  in  breathless  slumber, 
You  may  haply  not  remember. 


You  may  not  remember  whether 
It  was  Spring  or  Summer  weather ; 
But  /  know — we  two  together 

At  the  dim  end  of  the  day — 
How  the  fireflies  in  the  twilight 
Drifted  by  like  flakes  of  starlight, 
Till  o'er  floods  of  flashing  moonlight 
They  were  wave-like  swept  away. 

You  may  not  remember  any 

Word  of  mine  of  all  the  many 

Poured  out  for  you  there,  though  then  a 

Soul  inspired  spake  my  love ; — 
But  /  knew — and  still  review  it, 
All  my  passion,  as  with  awe  it 
Welled  in  speech  as  from  a  poet 
Gifted  of  the  gods  above. 
94 


YOU   MAY   NOT  REMEMBER 

Sleeping  here,  this  hour  I  grieve  in1,; 
You  may  not  remember  even 
Any  kiss  I  still  believe  in, 

Or  caress  of  ecstasy, — 
May  not  even  dream — O  can't  you  ? — 
That  I  kneel  here — weep  here — want  you — - 
Feign  me  in  your  grave,  to  haunt  you, 
Since  you  come  not  back  to  me ! 

Vain !  ah,  vain  is  all  my  yearning 
As  the  West's  last  embers  burning 
Into  ashes,  slowly  turning 

Ever  to  a  denser  gray ! — 
While  the  fireflies  in  the  twilight 
Drift  about  like  flakes  of  starlight, 

Till  o'er  wastes  of  wannest  moonlight 
They  are  wave-like  swept  away. 


95 


THE  REST 

V.  K. — NATURALIST 

HE  RESTS  at  last,  as  on  the  mother-breast 
The  playworn  child  at  evening  lies  at  rest, — 
For  he,  a  buoyant  child,  in  veriest  truth, 
Has  looked  on  life  with  eyes  of  changeless 

youth : — 

Has  loved  our  green  old  earth  here  from  the  hour 
Of  his  first  memory  of  bud  and  flower — 
Of  morning's  grassy  lawns  and  dewy  trees 
And  orchard-blossoms,  singing  birds  and  bees : 

When  all  the  world  about  him  was  a  land 

Elysian,  with  the  mother  near  at  hand : 

With  steadfast  gaze  of  wonder  and  delight 

He  marked  the  miracles  of  day  and  night : — 

Beheld  the  kingly  sun,  in  dazzling  reign 

By  day;  and,   with  her   glittering,   glimmering 

train 

Of  stars,  he  saw  the  queenly  moon  possess 
Her  throne  in  midmost  midnight's  mightiness. 
96 


THE  REST 

All  living  least  of  things  he  ever  knew 
Of  mother  Earth's  he  was  a  brother  to: 
The  lone  rose  by  the  brook — or,  under,  where 
The  swaying  water-lilies  anchored  there; 
His  love  dipped  even  to  the  glossy  things 
That  walked  the  waters  and  forgot  their  wings 
In  sheer  insanity  of  some  delight 
Known  but  to  that  ecstatic  parasite. 

It  was  enough,  thus  childishly  to  sense 
All  works — since  worthy  of  Omnipotence — 
As  worshipful :  Therefor,  as  any  child, 
•He  knelt  in  tenderness  of  tears,  or  smiled 
His  gratefulness,  as  to  a  playmate  glad 
To  share  His  pleasures  with  a  poorer  lad. 
And  so  he  lived :  And  so  he  died? — Ah,  no, 
We'll  not  believe  that  till  he  tells  us  so. 


A  CHRISTMAS  GLEE 

FEIGNED  AS  FROM  ELIZABETHAN  COMEDY 


WITH  a  hey !  and  a  hi !  and  a  hey-ho  glee ! 

O  a  Christmas  glass  for  a  sweet-lipped  lass 
To  kiss  and  pass,  in  her  coquetry — 

So  rare ! 
And  the  lads  all  flush  save  the  right  one  there — 

So  rare — so  rare! 

With  a  hey !  and  a  hi !  and  a  ho — oh ! 
The  Christmas  holly  and  the  mistletoe! 

II 

With  a  hey !  and  a  hi !  and  a  hey-ho  wile ! 

As  he  lifts  the  cup  and  his  wan  face  up, 

Her  eyes  touch  his  with  a  tender  smile — 

So  rare! 

Then  his  hands  grasp   out — and  her  own  are 
there— 

98 


A  CHRISTMAS  GLEK 

So  rare — so  rare! 

With  a  hey !  and  a  hi !  and  a  ho— oh ! 
The  Christmas  holly  and  the  mistletoe! 


CHORUS 

With  a  hey !  and  a  hi !  and  a  hey-ho-ho ! 
The  wind,  the  winter  and  the  drifting  snow! 
With  a  hey !  and  a  hi !  and  a  ho — oh ! 
The  Christmas  holly  and  the  mistletoe ! 


99 


WE  MUST  BELIEVE 
"Lord,  I  believe:  help  Thou  mine  unbelief." 

I 

WE  must  believe — 

Being  from  birth  endowed  with  love  and  trust — 
Born  unto  loving; — and  how  simply  just 
That  love — that  faith ! — even  in  the  blossom- face 
The  babe  drops  dreamward  in  its  resting-place, 
Intuitively  conscious  of  the  sure 
Awakening  to  rapture  ever  pure 
And  sweet  and  saintly  as  the  mother's  own, 
Or  the  awed  father's,  as  his  arms  are  thrown 
O'er  wife  and  child,  to  round  about  them  weave 
And  wind  and  bind  them  as  one  harvest-sheaf 
Of  love — to  cleave  to,  and  forever  cleave.    „   *   „ 
Lord,  I  believe: 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief. 

100 


WE  MUST  BELIEVE 
II 

WE  must  believe — 

Impelled  since  infancy  to  seek  some  clear 

Fulfilment,  still  withheld  all  seekers  here; — 

For  never  have  we  seen  perfection  nor 

The  glory  we  are  ever  seeking  for : 

But  we  have  seen — all  mortal  souls  as  one — 

Have  seen  its  promise,  in  the  morning  sun — 

Its  blest  assurance,  in  the  stars  of  night ; — 

The  ever-dawning  of  the  dark  to  light ; — 

The  tears  down-falling  from  all  eyes  that  grieve — 

The  eyes  uplifting  from  all  deeps  of  grief, 
Yearning  for  what  at  last  we  shall  receive.    .    .    . 
Lord,  I  believe: 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief. 


Ill 

WE  must  believe : 

For  still  all  unappeased  our  hunger  goes, 
From  life's  first  waking,  to  its  last  repose : 
The  briefest  life  of  any  babe,  or  man 
Outwearing  even  the  allotted  span, 
101 


WE  MUST  BELIEVE 

Is  each  a  life  unfinished — incomplete : 
For  these,  then,  of  th'  outworn,  or  unworn  feet 
Denied  one  toddling  step —  O  there  must  be 
Some  fair,  green,  flowery  pathway  endlessly 
Winding  through  lands  Elysian!    Lord,  receive 
And  lead  each  as  Thine  Own  Child — even  the 

Chief 

Of  us  who  didst  Immortal  life  achieve.    .    .    . 
Lord,  I  believe: 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief. 


102 


LIFE  AT  THE  LAKE 

THE  green  below  and  the  blue  above ! — 
The  waves  caressing  the  shores  they  love: 
Sails  in  haven,  and  sails  afar 
And  faint  as  the  waterlilies  are 
In  inlets  haunted  of  willow  wands, 
Listless  lovers,  and  trailing  hands 
With  spray  to  gem  them  and  tan  to  glove.- 
The  green  below  and  the  blue  above. 

The  blue  above  and  the  green  below ! 
Would  that  the  world  were  always  so! — 
Always  summer  and  warmth  and  light, 
With  mirth  and  melody  day  and  night! 
Birds  in  the  boughs  of  the  beckoning  trees, 
Chirr  of  locusts  and  whiff  of  breeze — 
World-old  roses  that  bud  and  blow. — 
The  blue  above  and  the  green  below. 
103 


LIFE  AT  THE  LAKE 

The  green  below  and  the  blue  above ! 
Heigh!  young  hearts  and  the  hopes  thereof !- 
Kate  in  the  hammock,  and  Tom  sprawled  on 
The  sward — like  a  lover's  picture,  drawn 
By  the  lucky  dog  himself,  with  Kate 
To  moon  o'er  his  shoulder  and  meditate 
On  a  fat  old  purse  or  a  lank  young  love. — 
The  green  below  and  the  blue  above. 

The  blue  above  and  the  green  below ! 

Shadow  and  sunshine  to  and  fro. — 

Season  for  dreams — whate'er  befall 

Hero,  heroine,  hearts  and  all ! 

Wave  or  wildwood — the  blithe  bird  sings, 

And  the  leaf-hid  locust  whets  his  wings — 

Just  as  a  thousand  years  ago — 

The  blue  above  and  the  green  below. 


104 


WE  MUST  GET  HOME 

WE  MUST  get  home!   How  could  we  stray  like 

this?— 

So  far  from  home,  we  know  not  where  it  is, — 
Only  in  some  fair,  apple-blossomy  place 
Of  children's  faces — and  the  mother's  face — 
We  dimly  dream  it,  till  the  vision  clears 
Even  in  the  eyes  of  fancy,  glad  with  tears. 

We  must  get  home!    With  heart  and  soul  we 

yearn 

To  find  the  long-lost  pathway,  and  return !   .   ,   . 
The  child's  shout  lifted  from  the  questing  band 
Of  old  folk,  faring  weary,  hand  in  hand, 
But  faces  brightening,  as  if  clouds  at  last 
Were  showering  sunshine  on  us  as  they  passed. 

We  must  get  home — home  to  the  simple  things, — 
The  morning-glories  twirling  up  the  strings 
And  bugling  color,  as  they  blared  in  blue- 
And-white  o'er  garden-gates  we  scampered 

through ; 

The  long  grape-arbor,  with  its  under-shade 
Blue  as  the  green-and-purple  overlaid. 
105 


WE  MUST  GET   HOME 

The  rows  of  sweetcorn  and  the  China  beans 
Beyond  the  lettuce-beds  where,  towering,  leans 
The  giant  sunflower  in  barbaric  pride 
Guarding  the  barn-door  and  the  lane  outside; 
The  honeysuckles,  midst  the  hollyhocks, 
That  clamber  almost  to  the  martin-box. 

We  must  get  home !   There  only  may  we  find 
The  little  playmates  that  we  left  behind, — 
Some  racing  down  the  road ;  some  by  the  brook ; 
Some  droning  at  their  desks,  with  wistful  look 
Across  the  fields  and  orchards — further  still 
Where  laughs  and  weeps  the  old  wheel  at  the 
mill. 

We  must  get  home !  The  willow-whistle's  call 
Trills  crisp  and  liquid  as  the  waterfall — 
Mocking  the  trillers  in  the  cherry-trees 
And  making  discord  of  such  rhymes  as  these, 
That  know  nor  lilt  nor  cadence  but  the  birds 
First  warbled — then  all  poets  afterwards. 

We  must  get  home  again — we  must — we  must ! — 
'(Our  rainy  faces  pelted  to  the  dust) 

106 


WE  MUST  GET   HOME 

Creep  back  from  tHe  vain  quest  througH  endless 

strife 

To  find  not  anywhere  in  all  of  life 
A  happier  happiness  than  blest  us  then.    .   *   . 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  Home  again ! 


107 


DIALECT,  CHILDISH,  AND  LIGHTER 
LINES 


THE  HIRED  MAN'S  DOG- STORY 

"Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame 
Forgathered  ance  upon  a  time." 

— Burns. 

DOGS,  I  contend,  is  jes'  about 
Nigh  human — git  'em  studied  out. 
I  hold,  like  us,  they've  got  their  own 
Reasonin'  powers  'at's  theirs  alone — 
Same  as  their  tricks  and  habits  too, 
Proving  by  lots  o'  things  they  do, 
That  instinct's  not  the  only  thing 
That  dogs  is  governed  by,  i  jing! — 
And  I'll  say  furder,  on  that  line, 
And  prove  it,  that  they's  dogs  a-plenty 
Will  show  intelligence  as  fine 
As  ary  ten  men  out  o'  twenty ! 

Jevver  investigate  the  way 
Sheep-killin'  dogs  goes  at  it — hey? 
Well,  you  dig  up  the  facts  and  you 
Will  find,  first  thing,  they's  always  two 
Dogs  goes  together  on  that  spree 
in 


THE   HIRED    MAN'S   DOG- STORY 

O'  blood  and  puore  dog-deviltry ! 
And,  then,  they  always  go  at  night — 
Mind  ye,  it's  never  in  daylight, 
When  folks  is  up  and  wide  awake, — 
No  self-respectin'  dogs  '11  make 
Mistakes  o'  judgment  on  that  score, — 
And  I've  knowed  fifty  head  or  more 
O'  slaughtered  sheep  found  in  the  lot, 
Next  morning  the  old  farmer  got 
His  folks  up  and  went  out  to  feed, — 
And  every  livin'  soul  agreed 
That  all  night  long  they  never  heerd 
The  bark  o'  dog  ner  bleat  o'  skeerd 
And  racin',  tromplin'  flock  o'  sheep 
A-skallyhootin'  roun'  the  pastur', 
To  rouse  'em  from  their  peaceful  sleep 
To  that  heart-renderin'  disaster ! 

Well,  now,  they's  actchul  evidence 
In  all  these  facts  set  forth ;  and  hence 
When,  by  like  facts,  it  has  been  foun' 
That  these  two  dogs — colloguin'  roun' 
'At  night  as  thick  as  thieves — by  day 
Don't  go  together  anyway, 

112 


THE   HIRED   MAN'S  DOG -STORY 

And,  'pearantly,  hain't  never  met 

Each  other ;  and  the  facts  is  set 

On  record  furder,  that  these  smart 

Old  pards  in  crime  lives  miles  apart — 

Which  is  a  trick  o'  theirs,  to  throw 

Off  all  suspicion,  don't  you  know ! — 

One's  a  town-dog — belongin'  to 

Some  good  man,  maybe — or  to  you ! — 

And  one's  a  country-dog,  or  "jay" 

As  you  nickname  us  thataway. 

Well,  now ! — these  is  the  facts  I'  got 

(And,  mind  ye,  these  is  facts — not  guesses) 

To  argy  on,  concernin'  what 

Fine  reasonin'  powers  dogs  p'sesses. 

My  idy  is, — the  dog  lives  in 

The  town,  we'll  say,  runs  up  ag'in 

The  country-dog,  some  Saturday, 

Under  a'  old  farm-wagon,  say, 

Down  at  the  Courthouse  hitchin'-rack. — 

Both  lifts  the  bristles  on  their  back 

And  show  their  teeth  and  growl  as  though 

They  meant  it  pleasant-like  and  low, 

In  case  the  fight  hangs  fire.    And  they 


THE  HIRED  MAN*S  DOG-STORY 

Both  wag  then  in  a  friendly  way, 

The  town-dog  sayin' : —  "Seems  to  me, 

Last  Dimocratic  jubilee, 

I  seen  you  here  in  town  somewhere?" 

The  country-dog  says: —  "Right  you  air! — 

And  right  here's  where  you  seen  me,  too, 

.Under  this  wagon,  watchin'  you !" 

"Yes,"  says  the  town-dog, — "and  I  thought 

We'd  both  bear  watchin',  like  as  not." 

And  as  he  yawns  and  looks  away, 

The  country-dog  says,  "What's  your  lay  ?" 

The  town-dog  whets  his  feet  a  spell 

And  yawns  ag'in,  and  then  says, — "Well, 

Before  I  answer  that — Ain't  you 

A  Mill  Crick  dog,  a  mile  or  two 

From  old  Chape  Clayton's  stock-farm — say?" 

"Who  told  you?"  says  the  jay-dog— "hey  ?" 

And  looks  up,  real  su'prised.   "/  guessed" 

The  town-dog  says —  "You  tell  the  rest, — 

How's  old  Chape's  mutton,  anyhow  ? — 

How  many  of  'em's  ready  now — 

How  many's  ripe  enough  for  use, 

And  how's  the  hot,  red,  rosy  juice?" 

"'Mm!"  says  the  country-dog,  "I  think 

114 


THE   HIRED   MAN'S   DOG -STORY 

I  sorto'  see  a  little  blink 

O'  what  you  mean."  And  then  he  stops 

And  turns  and  looks  up  street  and  lops 

His  old  wet  tongue  out,  and  says  he, 

Lickin'  his  lips,  all  slobbery, 

"Ad-drat  my  melts!  you're  jes'  my  man! — 

I'll  trust  you,  'cause  I  know  I  can!" 

And  then  he  says,  "I'll  tell  you  jes' 

How  things  is,  and  Chape's  carelessness 

About  his  sheep,^fer  instance,  say, 

To-morry  Chapes  '11  all  be  'way 

To  Sund'y-meetin' — and  ag'in 

At  night."  "At  night?  That  lets  us  in!— 

'Better  the  day'  " — the  town-dog  says — 

"  'Better  the  deed.'  We'll  pray ;  Lord,  yes  !— 

May  the  outpourin'  grace  be  shed 

Abroad,  and  all  hearts  comforted 

Accordin'  to  their  lights !"  says  he, 

"And  that,  of  course,  means  you  and  me." 

And  then  they  both  snarled,  low  and  quiet — 

Swore  where  they'd  meet.  And  both  stood  by  it ! 

Jes'  half-past  eight  on  Sund'y  night, 

Them  two  dogs  meets, — the  fawn-dog,  light 


O'  foot,  though  five  mile'  he  had  spanned 
O'  field,  beech-wood  and  bottom-land. 
But,  as  books  says, — we  draw  a  veil 
Over  this  chapter  of  the  tale !    .    .    . 
Yit  when  them  two  infernal,  mean, 
Low,  orn'ry  whelps  has  left  the  scene 
O'  carnage — chased  and  putt  to  death 
The  last  pore  sheep, — they've  yit  got  breath 
Enough  to  laugh  and  joke  about 
The  fun  they've  had,  while  they  sneak  out 
The  woods-way  for  the  old  crick  where 
They  both  plunge  in  and  wash  their  hair 
And  rench  their  bloody  mouths,  and  grin, 
As  each  one  skulks  off  home  ag'in — 
Jes'  innardly  too  proud  and  glad 
To  keep  theirselves  from  kindo'  struttin', 
Thinkin'  about  the  fun  they'd  had— 
When  their  blame  wizzens  needed  cuttin' ! 

Dogs  is  deliber't. — They  can  bide 
Their  time  till  s'picions  all  has  died. 
The  country-dog  don't  'pear  to  care 
Fer  town  no  more, — he's  off  somewhere 
When  the  folks  whistles,  as  they  head 
116 


THE   HIRED   MAN'S   DOG- STORY 


The  team  t'ords  town.    As  I  jes'  said, — 
Dogs  is  deliber't,  don't  forgit! 
So  this-here  dog  he's  got  the  grit 
To  jes'  deprive  hisse'f  o'  town 

For  'bout  three  weeks.  But  time  rolls  roun' ! 

Same  as  they  first  met : — Saturday — 

Same  Courthouse — hitchrack — and  same  way 

The  team  wuz  hitched — same  wagon  where 

The  same  jay-dog  growls  under  there 

When  same  town-dog  comes  loafin'  by, 

With  the  most  innocentest  eye 

And  ginerl  meek  and  lowly  style, 

As  though  he'd  never  cracked  a  smile 

In  all  his  mortal  days ! — And  both 

Them  dogs  is  strangers,  you'd  take  oath! — 

Both  keeps  a-lookin'  sharp,  to  see 

If  folks  is  watchin' — jes'  the  way 

They  acted  that  first  Saturday 

They  talked  so  confidentchully. 

"Well" — says  the  town-dog,  in  a  low 

And  careless  tone — "Well,  whatch  you  know?" 

"  'Knoiif?"  says  the  country-dog — "Lots  more 

Than  some  smart  people  knows — that's  shore !" 

And  then,  in  his  dog-language,  he 

117 


THE  HIRED  MAN*S  DOG- STORY 

Explains  how  slick  he  had  to  be 

When  some  suspicious  folks  come  roun* 

A-tryin'  to  track  and  run  him  down — 

Like  he'd  had  anything  to  do 

With  killin'  over  fifty  head 

O'  sheep !  "Jes'  think !— and  me"— he  said, 

"And  me  as  innocent  as  you, 

That  very  hour,  five  mile'  away 

In  this  town,  like  you  air  to-day!" 

"Ah!"  says  the  town-dog,  "there's  the  beauty 

O'  bein'  prepared  for  what  may  be, 

And  washin'  when  you've  done  your  duty ! — 

No  stain  oj  blood  on  you  or  me 

Nor  wool  in  our  teeth ! — Then"  says  he, 

"When  wicked  men  has  wronged  us  so, 

We  ort  to  learn  to  be  forgivin' — 

Half  the  world,  of  course,  don't  know 

How  the  other  gits  its  livin'  1" 


118 


PERVERSITY 

You  have  more'n  likely  noticed, 
When  you  didn't  when  you  could, 

That  jes  the  thing  you  didn't  do 
Was  jes  the  thing  you  should. 


119 


HER  POET-BROTHER 

OH  !  what  ef  little  childerns  all 

Wuz  big  as  parunts  is ! 
Nen  I'd  join  pa's  Masonic  Hall 

An'  wear  gold  things  like  his ! 
An'  you'd  "receive,"  like  ma,  an'  be 

My  "hostuss" — An',  gee-whizz! 
We'd  alluz  have  ice  cream,  ef  we 

Wuz  big  as  parunts  is ! 

Wiv  all  the  money  mens  is  got — 

We'd  buy  a  Store  wiv  that, — 
1st  candy,  pies  an'  cakes,  an'  not 

No  dry  goods — 'cept  a  hat- 
An'-plume  fer  you — an'  "plug"  fer  me, 

An*  clothes  like  ma's  an'  his, 
'At  on'y  ist  fit  us — ef  we 

Wuz  big  as  parunts  is ! 
120 


HER   POET-BROTHER 

An* — ef  we  had  a  little  boy 

An'  girl  like  me  an'  you, — 
Our  Store'd  keep  ever'  kind  o'  toy 

They'd  ever  want  us  to ! — 
We'd  hire  "Old  Kriss"  to  'tend  to  be 

The  boss  of  all  the  biz 
An'  ist  "charge"  ever'thing — ef  we 

Wuz  big  as  parunts  is ! 


121 


I'  GOT  TO  FACE  MOTHER  TO-DAY! 


I'  GOT  to  face  Mother  to-day,  fer  a  fact ! — 

I'  got  to  face  Mother  to-day ! 
And  just  how  I'll  dare  to,  an'  how  she  will  act, 

Is  more  than  a  mortal  can  say ! 
But  F  got  to  face  her —  F  got  to !  And  so 
Here's  a'  old  father  clean  at  the  end  of  his  row! 

And  Pink  and  Wade's  gone  to  the  farm  fer  her 

now — 

And  I'm  keepin'  house  fer  'em  here — 
Their  purty,  new  house — and  all  paid  fer ! —  But 

how 

Am  /  goin'  to  meet  her,  and  clear 
Up  my  actchully  he'ppin'  'em  both  to  elope? — 
('Cause  Mother  wuz  set — and  wuz  no  other 
hope !) 

122 


l'   GOT  TO   FACE  MOTHER  TO-DAY ! 

I  don't  think  it's  Wade  she's  so  biased  ag'in, 
But  his  bisness, — a  railroadin'  man 

'At  runs  a  switch-engine,  day  out  and  day  in, 
And's  got  to  make  hay  while  he  can, — 

It's  a  dangersome  job,  I'll  admit,— but  see  what 

A  fine- furnished  home  'at  he's  already  got ! 

And  Pink—Wy,  the  girl  wuz  just  pinin'  away,— 
So  what  could  her  old  father  do, 

When  he  found  her,  hid-like,  in  a  loose  load  of 

hay, 
But  jist  to  drive  on  clean  into 

The  aidge  of  the  city,  where — singular  thing! — 

Wade  switched  us  away  to  the  Squire,  i  jing ! 

Now — a-leavin'  me  here — they're  driv  off,  with  a 

cheer, 

On  their  weddin'-trip — which  is  to  drive 
Straight  home  and  tell  Mother,  and  toll  her  back 

here 

And  surrender  me,  dead  er  alive ! 
So  I'm  waitin'  here — not  so  blame'  overly  gay 
As  I  wuz, — 'cause  F  got  to  face  Mother  to-day  1 


123 


GRAMPA'S   CHOICE 

FIRST  and  best  of  earthly  joys, 
I  like  little  girls  and  boys : 
Which  of  all  do  I  like  best? 
Why,  the  one  that's  happiest. 


124 


A  LITTLE   LAME   BOY'S   VIEWS 


ON  'Scursion-days — an*  Shows — an'  Fairs 
They  ain't  no  bad  folks  anywheres ! — 

On  streetcars— same  as  you — 
Seems  like  somebody  allus  sees 
I'm  lame,  an'  takes  me  on  their  knees, 

An'  holds  my  crutches,  too — 
An'  asts  me  what's  my  name,  an'  pays 
My  fare  theirse'f — On  all  Big  Days ! 

The  mob  all  scrowdges  you  an'  makes 
Enough  o'  bluffs,  fer  goodness-sakes ! 

But  none  of  'em  ain't  mad — 
They're  only  lettiri  on. — I  know ; — 
An'  I  can  tell  you  why  it's  so : 

They're  all  of  'em  too  glad — 
They're  ever' one,  jes  glad  as  me 
To  be  there,  er  they  wouldn't  be ! 

"5 


A   LITTLE  LAME  BOY'S   VIEWS 

The  man  that  sells  the  tickets  snoops 
My  "one-er"  in,  but  sorto'  stoops 

An'  grins  out  at  me — then 
Looks  mean  an'  business-like  an'  sucks 
His  big  mustache  at  me  an'  chucks 

Too  much  change  out  again. — 
He's  a  smooth  citizen,  an'  yit 
He  don't  fool  me  one  little  bit ! 

An'  then,  inside — fer  all  the  jam — 
Folks,  seems-like,  all  knows  who  I  am, 

An'  tips  me  nods  an'  winks ; 
An'  even  country-folks  has  made 
Me  he'p  eat  pie  an'  marmalade, 

With  bottled  milk  fer  "drinks"  !— 
Folks  all's  so  good  to  me  that  I — 
Sometimes — I  nearly  purt'-near'  cry. 

An'  all  the  kids,  high-toned  er  pore, 
Seems  better  than  they  wuz  before, 

An'  wants  to  kindo'  "stand 
In"  with  a  feller — see  him  through 


;I26 


&  LITTLE  LAME  BOY'S  VIEWS 

The  'free  lay-out  an'  sideshows,  too, 

An'  do  the  bloomin'  "grand" ! 
On  'Scursion-days — an'  Shows  an'  Fairs—- 
They  ain't  no  bad  folks  anywheres! 


127 


RABBIT 

I  S'POSE  it  takes  a  feller  'at's  ben 
Raised  in  a  country-town,  like  me, 
To  'predate  rabbits !   .   .   .   Eight  er  ten 
Bellerin'  boys  and  two  er  three 
Yelpin'  dawgs  all  on  the  trail 
O'  one  little  pop-eyed  cottontail ! 

'Bout  the  first  good  fall  o'  snow — 
So's  you  kin  track  'em,  don't  you  know* 
Where  they've  run, — and  one  by  one 
Hop  'em  up  and  chase  'em  down 
And  prod  'em  out  of  a'  old  bresh-pile 
Er  a  holler  log  they're  a-hidin'  roun', 
Er'  way  en-nunder  the  ricked  cord-wood 
Er  crosstie-stack  by  the  railroad  track 
'Bout  a  mile 

Out  o'  sight  o'  the  whole  ding  town !    . 
Well !  them's  times  'at  I  call  good ! 
128 


RABBIT 

Rabbits ! — w'y,  as  my  thoughts  goes  back 
To  them  old  boyhood  days  o'  mine, 
I  kin  sic  him  now  and  see  "Old  Jack" 
A-plowin'  snow  in  a  rabbit-track 
And  a-pitchin'  over  him,  head  and  heels, 
Like  a  blame'  hat-rack, 
As  the  rabbit  turns  fer  the  timber-line 
Down  the  County  Ditch  through  the  old  corn- 
fields.   .    .    . 

Yes,  and  I'll  say  right  here  to  you, 

Rabbits  that  boys  has  earnt,  like  that — • 

Skinned  and  hung  fer  a  night  er  two 

On  the  old  back-porch  where  the  pump's  done 

froze — 

Then  fried  'bout  right,  where  your  brekfust's  at, 
With  hot  brown  gravy  and  shortenin'  bread. — 
Rabbits,  like  them — er  I  ort  to  a'  said, 
I  s'pose, 

Rabbits  like  those 
Ain't  so  p'ticalar  pore,  I  guess, 
Fer  eatin'  purposes ! 


129 


A  VERY  TALL  BOY 

THE  ONE  LONE  LIMERICK  OF  UNCLE  SIDNEY'S 

SOME  credulous  chroniclers  tell  us 
Of  a  very  tall  youngster  named  Ellis, 

Whose  Pa  said,  "Ma-ri-er, 

If  Bubb  grows  much  higher, 
He'll  have  to  be  trained  up  a  trellis." 


130 


THINKIN'   BACK 

I'VE  ben  thinkin'  back,  of  late, 
S'prisin' ! — And  I'm  here  to  state 
I'm  suspicious  it's  a  sign 
Of  age,  maybe,  er  decline 
Of  my  faculties, — and  yit 
I'm  not  feelin'  old  a  bit — 
Any  more  than  sixty-four 
Ain't  no  young  man  any  more ! 

Thinkin'  back  's  a  thing  'at  grows 
On  a  feller,  I  suppose — 
Older  'at  he  gits,  i  jack, 
More  he  keeps  a-thinkin'  back ! 
Old  as  old  men  git  to  be, 
Er  as  middle-aged  as  me, 


THINKIN'  BACK 

Folks  '11  find  us,  eye  and  mind 
Fixed  on  what  we've  left  behind — • 
Rehabilitatin'-like 
Them  old  times  we  used  to  hike 
Out  barefooted  fer  the  crick, 
'Long  'bout  Aprile  first — to  pick 
Out  some  "warmest"  place  to  go 
In  a-swimmin' — Ooh!  my-oh! 
Wonder  now  we  hadn't  died ! 
Grate  horseradish  on  my  hide 
Jes'  a-thinkin'  how  cold  then 
That-'ere  worter  must  'a'  ben! 

Thinkin'  back — W'y,  goodness  me ! 
I  kin  call  their  names  and  see 
Every  little  tad  I  played 
With,  er  fought,  er  was  afraid 
Of,  and  so  made  him  the  best 
Friend  I  had  of  all  the  rest ! 
Thinkin'  back,  I  even  hear 
Them  a-callin',  high  and  clear, 
Up  the  crick-banks,  where  they  seem 
Still  hid  in  there — like  a  dream — 
And  me  still  a-pantin'  on 

132 


The  green  pathway  they  have  gone ! 
Still  they  hide,  by  bend  er  ford — 
Still  they  hide— but,  thank  the  Lord, 
(Thinkin'  back,  as  I  have  said), 
I  hear  laughin'  on  ahead! 


133 


NAME  US  NO  NAMES  NO  MORE 

SING,  oh,  rarest  of  roundelays ! — 

Sing  the  hilarity  and  delight 
Of  our  childhood's  gurgling,  giggling  days ! 
When  our  eyes  were  as  twinkling-keen  and 

bright 

And  our  laughs  as  thick  as  the  stars  at  night, 
And  our  breasts  volcanoes  of  pent  hoo-rays ! 
When  we  grouped  together  in  secret  mirth 
And  sniggered  at  everything  on  earth — 
But  specially  when  strange  visitors  came 
And  we  learned,  for  instance,  that  their  name 
was  Fishback — or  Mothershead — or  Philpott — 
or  Dalrymple — or  Fullenwider — or  Applewhite — 
or  Hunnicutt — or  Tubbs — or  Oldshoe ! 
"  'Oldshoe!' — jeminy-jee!"  thinks  we — 
"Hain't  that  a  funny  name! — tee-hee-hee !" 

Barefoot  racers  from  everywhere, 
We'd  pelt  in  over  the  back-porch  floor 

For  "the  settm'-room,"  and  cluster  there 
Like  a  clot  of  bees  round  an  apple-core, 
134 


NAME  US   NO  NAMES  NO  MORE 

And  sleeve  our  noses,  and  pinafore 
Our  smearcase-mouths,  and  slick  our  hair, 

And  stare  and  listen,  and  try  to  look 
Like  "Agnes"  does  in  the  old  school-book, — 

Till  at  last  we'd  catch  the  visitor's  name, — 
Reddinhouse,  Lippscomb,  or  Burlingame, — 
or  Winkler — or  Smock — or  Tutewiler — or 
Daubenspeck — or   Throckmorton — or  Rubottom 
— or  Bixler — 

"  'Bixler  I'  jeminy-jee!"  thinks  we — 

"Hain't  that  a  funny  name! — tee-hee-hee I" 


Peace !— Let  be !— Fall  away !— Fetch  loose  I—- 
We can't  have  fun  as  we  had  fun  then! — 

Shut  up,  Memory  ! — what's  the  use  ? — 
When  the  girls  and  boys  of  8  and  10 
Are  now — well,  matronly,  or  old  men, 

And  Time  has  (so  to  say)  "cooked  our  goose!" 
But  ah !  if  we  only  could  have  back 
The  long-lost  laughs  that  we  now  so  lack 
And  so  vainly  long  for, — how — we — could 
Naturely  wake  up  the  neigh-ber-/&00d, 


135 


NAME  US   NO  NAMES  NO  MORE 

over  the  still  heterogenious  names  ever  un- 
rolling from  the  endless  roster  of  ortho- 
graphic actualities, — such  names — for  fur- 
ther instance  of  good  faith — simply  such 
names  as  Vanderlip — or  Funkhouser — or 
Smoot — or  Galbreath — or  Frybarger— or 
Dinwiddie — or  Bouslog — or  Puterbaugh — 
or  Longnecker — or  Hartpence — or  Wig- 
gins— or  Pangborn — or  Bowersox — 
" Bower  so  x" 7  Gee! — But  alas!  now  we 
Taste  salt  tear  sin  our  "tee-hee-heel" 


136 


THE  RAGGEDY  MAN  ON  CHILDREN 


CHILDERN — take  'em  as  they  run — 
You  kin  bet  on,  ev'ry  one ! — 
Treat  'em  right  and  reco'nize 
Human  souls  is  all  one  size. 

Jevver  think? — the  world's  best  men 
Wears  the  same  souls  they  had  when 
They  run  barefoot — 'way  back  where 
All  these  little  childern  air. 

Heerd  a  boy,  not  long  ago, 
Say  his  parents  sassed  him  so, 
He'd  correct  'em,  ef  he  could, — 
Then  be  good  ef  they'd  be  good. 


137 


LIZABUTH-ANN  ON  BAKIN'-DAY 

OUR  Hired  Girl,  when  it's  bakin'-day 

She's  out  o'  patience  allus, 
An'  tells  us  "Hike  outdoors  an'  play, 
An'  when  the  cookies  's  done,"  she'll  say, 

"Land  sake !  she'll  come  an'  call  us !" 
An'  when  the  little  doughbowl  's  all 
1st  heapin'-full,  she'll  come  an'  call — 

Nen  say,  "She  ruther  take  a  switchin' 
Than  have  a  pack  o'  pesky  childern 

Trackin'  round  the  kitchen!" 


138 


"MOTHER" 

I'M  gittin'  old — I  know, — 
It  seems  so  long  ago — 

So  long  sence  John  was  here ! 
He  went  so  young ! — our  Jim 
JS  as  old  now  'most  as  him, — 

Close  on  to  thirty  year' ! 

I  know  I'm  gittin'  old — 
I  know  it  by  the  cold, 

From  time  'at  first  frost  flies. — 
Seems  like — sence  John  was  here — 
Winters  is  more  severe ; 

And  winter  I  de-spise! 

And  yet  it  seems,  some  days, 
John's  here,  with  his  odd  ways  .  .  . 

Comes  soon-like  from  the  corn- 
Field,  callin'  "Mother"  at 
Me — like  he  called  me  that 

Even  'fore  Jim  was  born ! 
139 


When  Jim  come — La !  how  good 
Was  all  the  neighborhood  !— 

And  Doctor ! — when  I  heerd 
Him  joke  John,  kind  o'  low, 
And  say :  Yes,  folks  could  go — 

Pa  needn't  be  afeard ! 

When  Jim  come, — John  says-'e — 
A-bendin'  over  me 

And  baby  in  the  bed — 
And  jes  us  three, — says-'e 
'Our  little  family!" 

And  that  was  all  he  said  .  .  . 

And  cried  jes  like  a  child ! — 
Kissed  me  again,  and  smiled, — 

'Cause  I  was  cryin'  too. 
And  here  I  am  again 
A-cryin',  same  as  then — 

Yet  happy  through  and  through ! 

The  old  home's  most  in  mind 
And  joys  long  left  behind  .  .  . 
Jim's  little  h'istin'  crawl 

140 


"MOTHER" 


Acrost  the  floor  to  where 
John  set  a-rockin'  there  .  .  . 
(I'm  gittin9  old— -That's  all!)' 

•I'm  gittin'  old — no  doubt — 
[(Healthy  as  all  git-out!) — 

But, — strangest  thing  I  do, — 
I  cry  so  easy  now — 
I  cry  jes  anyhow 

The  fool-tears  wants  me  to  I 

But  Jim  he  won't  be  told 

9 At  "Mother"  's  gittin'  old!  .  ,  . 

Hugged  me,  he  did,  and  smiled 
This  morning,  and  bragged  "shore?' 
He  loved  me  even  more 

Than  when  he  was  a  child ! 

That's  his  way ;  but  ef  John 
Was  here  now,  lookin'  on, 

He'd  shorely  know  and  see : 
"But,  'Mother',"  s'pect  he'd  say, 
"S'pose  you  air  gittin'  gray, 
You're  younger  yet  than  me!" 

14* 


"MOTHER" 


I'm  gittin'  old, — because 

Our  young  days,  like  they  was, 

Keeps  comin'  back— so  clear, 
'At  little  Jim,  once  more, 
Comes  h'istin'  'crost  the  floor 

Fer  John's  old  rockin'-cheer ! 


O  beautiful! — to  be 
A-gittin'  old,  like  me !  .  .  . 

Hey,  Jim!  Come  in  now,  Jim! 
Your  supper's  ready,  dear! 
(How  more,  every  year, 

He  looks  and  acts  like  him!) 


142 


WHAT  LITTLE  SAUL  GOT,  CHRISTMAS 

Us  PARENTS  mostly  thinks  our  own's 

The  smartest  childern  out! 
But  Widder  Shelton's  little  Saul 

Beats  all  I  know  about ! 
He's  weakly-like — in  p'int  o'  health, 

But  strong  in  word  and  deed 
And  heart  and  head,  and  snap  and  spunk, 

And  allus  in  the  lead ! 

Comes  honest  by  it,  fer  his  Pa — 

Afore  he  passed  away — 
He  was  a  leader— (Lord,  I'd  like 

To  hear  him  preach  to-day!) 
He  led  his  flock ;  he  led  in  prayer 

Fer  spread  o'  Peace — and  when 
Nothin'  but  War  could  spread  it,  he 

Was  first  to  lead  us  then ! 

So  little  Saul  has  grit  to  take 

Things  jes'  as  they  occur; 
And  Sister  Shelton's  proud  o'  him 

As  he  is  proud  o'  her ! 
143 


WHAT  LITTLE  SAUL  GOT,   CHRISTMAS 

And  when  she  "got  up" — jes'  fer  him 

And  little  playmates  all — 
A  Chris'mus-tree — they  ever'one 

Was  there  but  little  Saul. 

Pore  little  chap  was  sick  in  bed 

Next  room ;  and  Doc  was  there, 
And  said  the  childern  might  file  past, 

But  go  right  back  to  where 
The  tree  was,  in  the  settin'-room. 

And  Saul  jes'  laid  and  smiled — 
Ner  couldn't  nod,  ner  wave  his  hand, 

It  hurt  so— Bless  the  child  1 

rAnd  so  they  left  him  there  with  Doc — 

And  warm  tear  of  his  Ma's  .  .  . 
Then — suddent-like — high  over  all 

Their  laughture  and  applause — 
They  heerd :  "I  don't  care  what  you  git 

On  your  old  Chris'mus-tree,  ^ 
'Cause  I'm  got  somepin'  you  all  hain't — 

I'm  got  the  pleurisy !" 


1144 


GOLDIE   GOODWIN 

MY  old  Uncle  Sidney  he  says  it's  a  sign 
All  over  the  WorF,  an'  ten  times  out  of  nine, 
He  can  tell  by  the  name  of  a  child  ef  the  same 
Is  a  good  er  bad  youngun — ist  knows  by  their 

name ! — 

So  he  says,  "It's  the  vurry  best  sign  in  the  Worl' 
That  Goldie  Goodwin  is  a  good  little  girl," — 
An'  says,  "First  she's  gold — then  she's  good — 

an'  behold, 
Good's  'bout  '\eventy-hunnerd  times  better  than 

gold!" 


145 


SYMPTOMS 

I'M  NOT  a-workin'  now ! — 

I'm  jes'  a-layin'  round 
A-lettin'  other  people  plow. — 

I'm  cumberin'  the  ground !  .  .  . 
I  jes'  don't  keer! — I've  done  my  sheer 

O'  sweatin'! — Anyhow, 
In  this  dad-blasted  weather  here, 

I'm  not  a-workin'  now! 

The  corn  and  wheat  and  all 

Is  doin'  well  enough ! — 
They'  got  clean  on  from  now  tel  Fall 

To  show  what  kind  o'  stuff 
'At's  in  their  own  dad-burn  backbone ; 

So,  while  the  Scriptur's  'low 
Man  ort  to  reap  as  he  have  sown — 

I'm  not  a-workin'  now ! 
146 


SYMPTOMS 

The  grass  en-nunder  these- 

Here  ellums  'long  "Old  Blue," 
And  shadders  o'  the  sugar-trees, 

Beats  farmin'  quite  a  few ! 
As  feller  says, — I  ruther  guess 

I'll  make  my  comp'ny-bow 
And  snooze  a  few  hours — more  er  less. 

I'm  not  a-workin'  now ! 


BUB    SAYS 

THE  moon  in  the  sky  is  a  custard-pie, 
An'  the  clouds  is  the  cream  pour'd  o'er  it, 

An'  all  o'  the  glittering  stars  in  the  sky 
Is  the  powdered-sugar  for  it. 


JOHNTS — he's  proudest  boy  in  town — 
'Cause  his  Mommy  she  cut  down 
His  Pa's  pants  fer  Johnts — an'  there 
Is  'miff  left  fer  Another  pair  1 


ONE  time,  when  her  Ma  was  gone, 
Little  Elsie  she  put  on 
All  her  Ma's  fine  clothes — an'  black 
Grow-grain-silk,  an'  sealskin-sack; 
Nen  while  she  wuz  flouncin'  out 
In  the  hall  an'  round  about, 
148 


BUB   SAYS 

Some  one  knocked,  an'  Elsie  she 
Clean  forgot  an'  run  to  see 
Who's  there  at  the  door — an'  saw 
Mighty  quick  it  wuz  her  Ma. 
But  ef  she  ain't  saw  at  all, 
She'd  a-knowed  her  parasol ! 


GRAN'PAS  an'  Gran'mas  is  funniest  folks ! — 
Don't  be  jolly,  ner  tell  no  jokes, 
Tell  o'  the  weather  an'  frost  an'  snow 
O'  that  cold  New  Year's  o'  long-ago ; 
An'  then  they  sigh  at  each  other  an'  cough 
An*  talk  about  suddently  droppin'  off. 


149 


THE  POOR   STUDENT 

WITH  SONG  elate  we  celebrate 

The  struggling  Student  wight, 
Who  seeketh  still  to  pack  his  pate 

With  treasures  erudite; 
Who  keepeth  guard  and  watch  and  ward 

O'er  every  hour  of  day, 
Nor  less  to  slight  the  hours  of  night, 

He  watchful  is  alway. 

Though  poor  in  pence,  a  wealth  of  sense 

He  storeth  in  excess — 
With  poverty  in  opulence, 

His  needs  wax  never  less : 
His  goods  are  few, — a  shelf  or  two 

Of  classics,  and  a  chair — 
A  banjo — with  a  bird's-eye  view 

Of  back-lots  everywhere. 

In  midnight  gloom,  shut  in  his  room, 

His  vigils  he  protracts, 
E'en  to  the  morning's  hectic  bloom, 

Accumulating  facts : 

150 


THE   POOR   STUDENT 

And  yet,  despite  or  wrong  or  right, 

He  nurtureth  a  ban, — 
He  hath  the  stanchless  appetite 

Of  any  hired  man. 

On  Jason's  fleece  and  storied  Greece 

He  feeds  his  hungry  mind ; 
Then  stuffs  himself  like  a  valise 

With  "eats"  of  any  kind : 
With  kings  he  feigns  he  feasts,  and  drains 

The  wines  of  ages  gone — 
Then  husks  a  herring's  cold  remains 

And  turns  the  hydrant  on. 

In  Trojan  mail  he  fronts  the  gale 

Of  ancient  battle-rout, 
When,  'las  the  hour !  his  pipe  must  fail, 

And  his  last  "snipe"  smush  out — 
Nor  pauses  he,  unless  it  be 

To  quote  some  cryptic  scroll 
And  poise  a  sardine  pensively 

O'er  his  immortal  soul. 


UNCLE  SIDNEY'S  RHYMES 

LITTLE  Rapacity  Greed  was  a  glutton : 

He'd  eat  any  meat,  from  goose-livers  to  mutton ; 

All  fowl,  flesh,  or  sausage  with  all  savors  through 

it — 

You  never  saw  sausage  stuffed  as  he  could  do  it ! 
His  nice  mamma  owned,  "O  he  eats  as  none  other 
Than  animal  kind ;"  and  his  bright  little  brother 
Sighed,  pained  to  admit  a  phrase  non-eulogistic, 
"Rap  eats  like  a — pardon  me — Cannibalistic." 
"He  eats — like  a  boor"  said  his  sister — "a  shame- 
less 

Plebeian,  in  sooth,  of  an  ancestry  nameless !" 
"He  eats,"  moaned  his  father,  despairingly  placid 
And  hopeless, — "he  eats  like — he  eats  like  an 
acid!" 


152 


'BLUE-MONDAY"  AT  THE  SHOE  SHOP 

[IN  THE  EARLY  SEVENTIES] 

OH,  if  we  had  a  rich  boss 

Who  liked  to  have  us  rest, 
With  a  dime's  lift  for  a  benchmate 

Financially  distressed, — 
A  boss  that's  been  a  "jour."  himself 

And  ain't  forgot  the  pain 
Of  restin'  one  day  in  the  week, 

Then  back  to  work  againe ! 

Chorus 

Ho,  it's  hard  times  together, 

We've  had  Jem,  you  and  I, 
In  all  kinds  of  iveather, 

Let  it  be  wet  or  dry; 
But  I'm  bound  to  earn  my  livelihood 

Or  lay  me  down  and  die! 
153 


"BLUE-MONDAY"  AT  THE  SHOE  SHOP 


Poverty  compels  me 

To  face  the  snow  and  sleet, — 
For  poor  wife  and  children 

Must  have  a  crust  to  eat. — 
The  sad  wail  of  hunger 

It  would  drive  me  insane, 
If  it  wasn't  for  Blue-Monday 

When  I  git  to  work  againe ! 

Chorus 

Ho,  it's  hard  times  together, 
We've  had  'em,  you  and  I, 

In  all  kinds  of  weather, 
Let  it  be  wet  or  dry; 

But  I'm  bound  to  earn  my  livelihood 
Or  lay  me  down  and  die ! 

Then  it's  stoke  up  the  stove,  Boss, 

And  drive  off  the  damps : 
Cut  out  me  tops,  Boss, 

And  lend  me  your  clamps ; — 
Pass  us  your  tobacky 

Till  I  give  me  pipe  a  start.  .  .  « 
Lor',  Boss !  how  we  love  ye 

For  your  warm  kynd  heart ! 
154 


Chorus 

Ho,  it's  hard  times  together, 
We've  had  'em,  you  and  I, 

In  all  kinds  of  weather, 
Let  it  be  wet  or  dry; 

But  I'm  bound  to  earn  my  livelihood 
Or  lay  me  down  and  die! 


155 


THE   THOUGHTS   OF   YOUTH 

THE  BOYS' 

THE  lisping  maid, 

In  shine  and  shade 

Half  elfin  and  half  human, 

We  love  as  such — 

Yet  twice  as  much 

Will  she  be  loved  as  woman. 

THE  GIRLS' 

The  boy  we  see, 

Of  two  or  three — 

Or  even  as  a  baby, 

We  love  to  kiss 

For  what  he  is, 

Yet  more  for  what  he  may  be. 


156 


IT'S    GOT  TO   BE 

"WHEN  it's  got  to  be," — like  I  always  say, 

As  I  notice  the  years  whiz  past, 
And  know  each  day  is  a  yesterday, 

When  we  size  it  up,  at  last, — 
Same  as  I  said  when  my  boyhood  went 

And  I  knowed  we  had  to  quit, — 
"It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  gain'  to  be !" — 

So  I  said  "Good-by"  to  it. 

It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goin'  to  be ! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say  in  a  hearty  way, — 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.  Good-by!" 

The  time  just  melts  like  a  late,  last  snow, — 

When  it's  got  to  be,  it  melts ! 
But  I  aim  to  keep  a  cheerful  mind, 

Ef  I  can't  keep  nothin'  else ! 
I  knowed,  when  I  come  to  twenty-one, 

That  I'd  soon  be  twenty-two, — 
So  I  waved  one  hand  at  the  soft  young  man, 

And  I  said,  "Good-by  to  you!" 
157 


IT'S  GOT  TO  BE 

It's  'got  to  b"e,  and  it's  'goin9  to  bV! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say,  in  a  cheerful  way, — 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.— Good-by!" 

They  kep'  a-goin',  the  years  and  years, 

Yet  still  I  smiled  and  smiled,— 
For  I'd  said  "Good-by"  to  my  single  life, 

And  I  had  a  wife  and  child : 
Mother  and  son  and  the  father — one, — 

Till,  last,  on  her  bed  of  pain, 
She  jes'  smiled  up,  like  she  always  done,- 

And  I  said  "Good-by"  again. 

It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goin'  to  be ! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say,  in  a  humble  way, — 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.  Good-by!" 

And  then  my  boy — as  he  growed  to  be 

Almost  a  man  in  size, — 
Was  more  than  a  pride  and  joy  to  me, 

With  his  mother's  smilin'  eyes. — 


IT'S  GOT  TO  BE 

He  gimme  the  slip,  when  the  War  broke  out, 

And  followed  me.  And  I 
Never  knowed^till  the  first  fight's  end   .    .    . 

I  found  him,  and  then,    .    .    .    "Good-by." 

It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goiri  to  be ! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say,  in  a  patient  way, 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.  Good-by!" 

I  have  said,  "Good-by !— Good-by !— Good-by !" 

With  my  very  best  good  will, 
All  through  life  from  the  first, — and  I 

Am  a  cheerful  old  man  still : 
But  it's  got  to  end,  and  it's  goin'  to  end ! 

And  this  is  the  thing  I'll  do, — 
With  my  last  breath  I  will  laugh,  O  Death, 

And  say  "Good-by"  to  you!   .    .    . 

It's  got  to  be !  And  again  I  say, — 

When  his  old  scythe  circles  high, 
I'll  laugh — of  course,  in  the  kindest  way, — 

As  I  say  "Good-by !— Good-by !" 


159 


HOOSIER   SPRING-POETRY 

WHEN  ever'thing's  a-goin'  like  she's,  got-a-goin' 

now, — 
The  maple-sap  a-drippin',  and  the  buds  on  ever' 

bough 
A-sorto'  reachin'  up'ards  all  a-trimblin',  ever' 

one, 
Like  'bout  a  million  brownie-fists  a-shakin'  at  the 

sun! 
The  childern  wants  their  shoes  off  'fore  their 

breakfast,  and  the  Spring 
Is  here  so  good-and-plenty  that  the  old  hen  has  to 

sing!— 
When  things  is  goin'  thisaway,  w'y,  that's  the 

sign,  you  know, 
That  ever'thing's  a-goin'  like  we  like  to  see  her 

go! 

Oh,  ever'thing's  a-goin'  like  we  like  to  see  her 

go! 
Old  Winter's  up  and  dusted,  with  his  dratted 

frost  and  snow — 
160 


HOOSIER  SPRING-POETRY 

The  ice  is  out  the  crick  ag'in,  the  freeze  is  out  the 

ground, 
And  you'll  see  faces  thawin'  too  ef  you'll  jes  look 

around ! — 
The  bluebird's  landin'  home  ag'in,  and  glad  to  git 

the  chance, 
'Cause  here's  where  he  belongs  at,  that's  a  settled 

circumstance ! 
And  him  and  mister  robin  now's  a-chunin'  fer  the 

show. 
Oh,  ever'thing's  a-goin'  like  we  like  to  see  her 

go! 

The  sun  ain't  jes'  p'tendin'  now!— The  ba'm  is  in 

the  breeze — 
The  trees'll  soon  be  green  as  grass,  and  grass  as 

green  as  trees ; 
The  buds  is  all  jes  eechin',  and  the  dogwood 

down  the  run 

Is  bound  to  bust  out  laughin'  'fore  another  week 

/ 

is  done; 

The  bees  is  wakin',  gap'y-like,  and  fumblin'  fer 
their  buzz, 


161 


HOOS1ER  SPRING-POETRY 

A-thinldn',  ever-wakefuler,  of  other  days  that 

wuz, — 
When  all  the  land  wuz  orchard-blooms  and 

clover,  don't  you  know.    .    .    . 
Oh,  ever'thing's  a-goin'  like  we  like  to  see  her 

go! 


162 


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